Of Steel and Stone
by littleblackdog
Summary: The exiled princess and the illegitimate prince— a romance between cultures, comrades, and cast-offs. A series of missing scenes. Not in chronological order, just moments in time. Rated for sexuality and some violence.
1. Of Family

"What do you think it's like to have a normal family?" Alistair leaned sideways to poke at the fire, only half surprised at the quiet question. For Grey Wardens, supposedly without ties beyond their duty, there'd certainly been no wanting for personal drama over the past few months. He shifted back into his former, more comfortable position and hugged her a little tighter where she leaned against his chest.

"Normal how?" He'd considered making a joke of it, but he couldn't quite read her tone, and her face was hidden in his shirt and the dancing shadows the fire made.

"You know, just normal. A father and mother living in a little house, with children they love and work to care for. Ordinary." He heard something unsaid, and waited. After a moment of silence (broken only by the sounds of a mabari hound slobbering all over a leftover deer bone), he felt her sigh. "With brothers who don't try to kill you."

"Or sisters who aren't hateful, vicious shrews?" She turned, almost flush against him, and if the conversation hadn't been so serious he would have let his mind wander to the feel of her breasts pressing against him and the way her leg was hooked over his thigh. She'd purchased a simple set of clothes before they'd left Orzammar, and the fabric was soft and still smelled faintly of the place. Of rocks and heat.

"Fathers who aren't kings," she said, dully, and he was reminded of how she'd learned of her father's death—from a guard who'd called her a kinslayer, right before she was tossed headfirst into brutal politics and horrific battles. He felt a sharp pang of guilt at his sudden relief that he'd never really known his father. The amount of politics he'd been privy to had been enough.

He didn't know what to say, but he knew enough not to fall back on silliness. She needed to make the first move out of this gloom on her own; if he tried to push her, she'd retreat. His prickly, dangerous, beautiful lady. Carefully, he laid back against the sloping grass a bit more, watching how the fire made her hair glow golden and vivid red. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, but he did continue to rub her back— gently, but sexual enough that it wasn't pitying. He would never pity her.

"It probably would have been terribly dull," she said eventually, after a long time of staring silently into the night. He had watched carefully, and was sure that the light behind her eyes had travelled all the way to the depths of Orzammar and back again. "Being a farmer's daughter. Learning to milk—what are those huge smelly things called? Curs?"

"Cows," he answered, knowing full well that she was striving for levity. In this, finally, he could help. "You'd probably be married off too young to a strapping, but rather dim farmhand. He's a sweet boy, your mother would say, but you'd still have to help him cut his meat. And then were would I be?"

"Married to me, farmhand." She grinned up at him, and his heart soared that he could help her survive this darkness. This, at least, he could keep from destroying her. Not all things in their lives were so simple.

"Oh ha, ha."


	2. Of Dreams

Slowly, unwillingly, she felt the warmth of sleep slip away from her, replaced by another kind of warmth. The warmth of the wolf pelt and wool blankets surrounding her, and of the large, familiar body pressed up next to her. She stretched, slightly so as not to disturb him, and opened her eyes.

He was lying with her, but he wasn't asleep. She could see his eyes in the darkness, his head propped up on one hand. She should have known from the absence of snoring.

"What's wrong?" Her voice was rough, her words slurring slightly. He chuckled softly and leaned down to press a kiss against her forehead.

"Nothing. I was just, sort of, watching you." She heard his slight embarrassment, and imagined his blush. "Is that sweet or creepy?"

"A little of both?" She squirmed, encouraging the hand that was rubbing her back to move a little lower. They'd done their watch shift already, and the night was still very dark around the edges of their tent. She still felt…warm. "Mostly sweet. I think."

"Good to know." Alistair needed very little prompting, once he got started. She moaned, deep and low, when his fingers slid over her rear and down to the back of her thigh. That was all he needed, and soon she was sweating and panting, and sweet Ancestors' favour, she'd never be able to look Morrigan in the eye again when the witch complained of Alistair's foolish tongue. What a smart, dexterous, lovely tongue—

When everything stopped pulsing and the walls of the tent came back into focus, she became very aware of a strange, muffled sound outside.

Alistair, still pressing soft, wet kisses against her belly, was grinning like a madman. She could see that much. The sound though…

"What is that?" Alistair licked just below her navel, and she couldn't help jerking her hips.

"I believe," he said, almost purring. "That might be applause. I could be wrong. All I know for sure is that I'm definitely not as self-conscious about the possibility as I should be."

"What—" His fingers brushed her knee, then a little higher, and she gasped.

"You, my dearest love, are not nearly so reserved when clinging to the last vestiges of sleep. Or I'm getting incredibly good at that. Either, really, makes me very happy. In a bad, bad way."

She could hear it more clearly now, and yes, it was applause. Not just one pair of hands, either, although it was petering off. Then there was a ruffling at the tent flap, and Alistair had the presence of mind to toss the blankets into a more decent state just as Zevran slipped his head and shoulders inside. Just far enough to make his smooth, bare chest known to all and sundry.

"Mercy, my wardens, I beg of you." His pleading words hardly matched the lecherous expression just visible in the dimness. "If I am not permitted to take part in such fervid lovemaking, at least permit me to watch. I am in such agony."

She sat up, carefully, and felt Zevran's eyes follow the edge of the blankets where they shifted over her body. Alistair was sitting up beside her in an instant, draping his arms over her like a shield and growling low in his chest.

"Alas, dear Zevran, in this I cannot assuage your pain." She would keep it light, so as not to drive the very large, very naked man next to her into a physical confrontation with their companion. Levity also helped her get past the burning embarrassment of having the sounds of her pleasure carry to the rest of camp. "Alistair is very wary of sharing the secrets of his skills."

"But sharing is so good for the soul—" Alistair moved as if readying attack, but she managed to hold him back. Her blankets slipped, revealing far more than any of them had been expecting, and Zevran gasped something in Antivan that was probably very complimentary.

"Out," Alistair snapped. "Before I beat you to death with your own arm. Out!"

Not one to be so easily ruffled, Zevran bowed deeply. "As you wish. I shall continue to suffer under the weight of such cruel refusal until I expire. Good evening, my gorgeous tormentors."

The tent flap dropped closed, but it took a few moments for Alistair to calm enough to lie back down. Finally she coaxed him back into a comfortable cuddle, encouraging his natural inclination to hold her as closely as possible.

She pressed a kiss against the side of his throat, then stretched up a bit and nipped his earlobe. "You're still more than a little proud of yourself, aren't you?"

He nodded, relaxing a bit more. "I really, really am, yes."

She laughed, not even trying to keep quiet. If Zevran was determined to hear a show, it wouldn't matter how low-key they tried to be. They lay like that for a few moments, and then she remembered that she'd actually had a coherent thought between the sleeping and the sex.

"You were watching me sleep." This, she did whisper. With any luck Zevran had retreated, and if not, then hopefully he was considerate enough to realise what really wasn't his business.

Alistair made a humming sound, as if confused. "See, you made that sound like there was a question in there, but you never really asked one." She frowned and pinched his nipple. "Ow! All right, all right—peace, dear lady." He snatched up her hand in defence, then pressed a kiss against her knuckles. "I was, well, I was wondering. What it's like for you to sleep. I mean, when you dream."

"Without entering the Fade, you mean."

"Yeah." Alistair cleared his throat, glancing away into the shadows of the tent. "I just realised that I sleep next to you every night, and every night I enter the Fade, and you don't. I know you dream, normal dreams I mean, not just the nightmares. Sometimes you twitch and murmur like someone dreaming— but I've never asked what it's like."

She was silent for long enough that Alistair began to fidget. Then she laid her cheek against his chest and started to explain. "I can tell you that it's not like what I've seen of the Fade. It's not so…open. I don't dream of so many things; it's not like the waking world with form and people and creatures." She began tracing patterns across his skin with one calloused finger. "It's always warm. Warm like Orzammar, like the molten rock. Usually, it's too dark to see anything, but there are voices. Soft voices that sound distant and near at once. It feels so safe, most of the time." She glanced up at him, enjoying the rapt expression on his face. "Your people go to the Fade when they sleep and when they die. My people, perhaps, are similar. We go to the Stone."

"You entered the Fade before though." There was something in Alistair's voice that made her very alert. This was a much more serious conversation than she'd realised. "So you _can_ go there. It's not impossible."

"I suppose not," she said, gently. She had an idea of where her beloved's thoughts had taken him. "I don't see why there wouldn't be some way for me to return. I could ask Wynne tomorrow."

"You could, I suppose," and Alistair sounded as hopeful and unsure as a young boy; it made her heart ache. "It's just—" His fingers found her jaw, stroking softly. "We're going to die, tomorrow or in thirty years, or sometime in between. And I, I just don't want to lose you. We've seen the world of spirits, where I'll go, and then I'll move beyond it maybe, if that's how that works, and I don't want to be without you." She smiled, a little sadly, and nuzzled his hand.

"Perhaps the Stone will receive you, my brave Grey Warden, as the beloved of Its daughter. Or perhaps I will travel through the Fade with you. But I promise I will not lose you. I will seek and I will fight Ancestors and spirits or the Maker Himself to find you."

"You would too, wouldn't you." Leaning down, Alistair caught her mouth in a deep, almost painful kiss and she returned it just as fiercely. Whatever was eternal in her, her spirit, knew him. She had no doubt that she would find him, in the end.


	3. Of Justice

He wasn't completely certain what had happened. In fact, he was sitting there, stunned, on the confounded side of baffled, with a smattering of bewildered for good measure. How had he gotten here from not five minutes ago being on the receiving end of that smile, the one with the crinkled eye and the bitten bottom lip that made his knees go weak and his belly grow warm?

He felt like he'd just been punched in the gut, like he'd just noisily passed wind in front of the Revered Mother, like he'd _hurt_ her.

He hadn't meant—he really didn't understand what had happened. Didn't understand why what he'd thought was a brilliant compliment, one he'd really truly meant as well, was met with shocking cold silence. Then a harsh, muttered withdrawal and she was gone, slamming the flap of her tent as much as such a thing could be slammed.

He got his answer much later, and no he hadn't forgotten, and yes it still bothered him but he was smart enough not to ask. Especially since they'd grown closer. Especially since she'd remembered about his mother's pendant and had the nerve to actually ask Bann Teagan about it, since he'd broken down a little bit and couldn't have stopped himself from kissing her if the Archdemon itself had been napping by their camp on the way to Haven. Especially since he'd realised that yes, this is was it feels like to love someone, to love a woman, and she'd let him touch her and undress her, and Maker, she'd encouraged him to explore her and worship her and all those lovely, wonderful, perfect things.

After they'd fought side-by-side in the Dwarven arena, after they'd explored the home she'd been exiled from and he had to watch her pain grow and grow silently behind her eyes and in the tightness of her jaw, then he finally understood.

When they wandered into Dust Town, a slum of corruption and suffering and forgotten lives rivalled only in his experience by a brief visit to an Elven Alienage once with Duncan, he began to realise his blunder. Then when they ventured into the Deep Roads and found the Legion of the Dead, forgotten defenders of the very people who abandoned them, he understood.

He had meant no offence, and she'd probably realised that at the time. Probably why he hadn't been eating his own teeth after he'd said it.

He'd mentioned, briefly, how the blue-grey geometric designs of her tattoo were so lovely, and he'd meant to say how they brought out her eyes, the delicate lines of her cheekbones, but he'd never had the chance. He hadn't realised how fresh those marks had been when he'd first met her—just over a week old, finished healing with the help of Dwarven herbs. Her brother had wanted them healed before she entered the Deep Roads, on the slim chance she'd find some path to the surface, perhaps find a kindly mage to remove them. Bhelen hadn't wanted to risk underestimating her, so he marked her as casteless and sent her to die. He'd guaranteed that any Dwarves from below ground would treat her like something less than dirt, even if they had no idea who she was.

When Alistair finally figured out what he'd said, why it had upset her, the faint, niggling feelings of confusion and guilt dissipated. Then, standing in the Dwarven Assembly, watching Harrowmont move to accept the crown that they'd fought so brutally to receive, he'd looked Bhelen in the eye for the first time, and was nearly as furious as he'd been after Ostagar.

He'd waited, seeing the same determination in her brother's face that he loved in her own, but her brother was not tempered by humility or kindness. Bhelen was determined and fierce, but in his heart he was nothing better than a snake, and when the thrice-damned serpent had attacked them moments later, Alistair had not been surprised. He'd been a little joyous, especially as he hacked his was through the rebel deshyrs and engaged Bhelen himself, focusing all the strength he'd built over months of battling darkspawn and undead and vicious creatures against a single foe, a Dwarven prince with hands that looked just slightly too soft to hold his sword.

He'd known she was near, even as all his attention was spent fighting off dwarves who got too close and hammering Bhelen's defences, and when he saw the flash of her dagger out of the corner of his eye he'd grinned, nearly laughed out loud, at the startled expression on Bhelen's face when razor sharp red steel slipped through a gap in his plate armour, piercing what Alistair could only assume was something vital. He didn't really give it too much thought, however, as the dagger was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and then Alistair swung out with his shield, the Aeducan Shield she had given him with pride and love in her eyes and a heartbreaking story on her lips.

There was a grim satisfaction to watching Bhelen's mouth and nose explode into a mess of blood and broken teeth when the metal edge of that shield connected, hard. It was a feeling Alistair knew he could not examine for long, but there was nothing shameful in avenging those you love. There should be no guilt felt when justice is meted out, and he truly believed justice had been done that day. Just as he believed, later, that Loghain's blood was justly spilled on the floor of the Landsmeet chamber.


	4. Of Memory

"Andraste's lacy knickers!" Alistair's voice was too loud, more of a squawk than anything, and in a panic she yanked him inside the tent. He stumbled, grunting as he landed nearly headfirst onto her bedroll.

"Keep your voice down, you dust brain!" She re-wrapped and tucked her prize out of sight for the moment, all too aware that unwanted attention could easily have been drawn. "Remind me again why I never take you along on scouting? With all that stealth and all." Carefully, ignoring her companion's defensive grumbling, she opened the tent flap a sliver and peeked out.

"I didn't know we were being stealthy! You never said! Of course, I see _now_—"

"Hush," she snapped, not looking away from the campmates giving her tent obviously curious glances. "And don't you dare touch that yet."

"You are a mean and spiteful woman."

"You are damn lucky I know better than to take your sulking seriously," she answered, then turned back to face him once it became clear that the others were not going to approach. "Move your hand or I'll stab you in the eye."

"You wouldn't. You think my eyes are pretty."

She grinned grimly. "Circumstances are extenuating. Hand. Move." He retracted his hand, folding it morosely in his lap. His eyes were still glittering hungrily. "Ancestors save me, you're like a spoilt child."

"It's entirely your fault, dangling such sweet treats in my face. Tease." They both realised the direction the conversation had gone down nearly simultaneously, and neither could control their blushes. Alistair's ears were burning, and she felt her cheeks and neck grow warm. After a moment of silent awkwardness, she coughed and shifted to sit across the small tent from him.

Digging under the pile of blankets, she retrieved the bundle of wax-coated paper. It was barely as big as Alistair's thumb, and with the greatest of care and the nimblest of fingers she unfolded the small packet. Nestled inside the thick paper was a tiny pile of sliced fruit sprinkled with crumbled nuts and spices, all coated in a subtle honey coloured glaze. Orlesian honeyed sweets.

"Maker's breath," Alistair whispered. Five pieces of the rare delight; she'd found the packet on the body of an unlucky traveller they'd been moments too late to save from the bandits they'd then soundly dispatched. Her hands had been quick enough that none of her companions had seen her secret the precious packet away as they'd all rummaged for useful supplies amongst the carnage.

She'd felt enormously guilty for not sharing her surprising find, but she'd only seen honeyed sweets once before in her entire life, and that had been a gift for her mother from her father. King Endrin had made some Orlesian merchant wildly happy and risked the wrath of his deshyrs for spending so much royal gold on such a little, frivolous thing, but the Queen had been well loved by their people, and no one would fault a husband for moving earth and stone to bring such joy to the last days of his dying wife.

She chose not to think too hard about why she'd chosen Alistair to share this moment with, why she hadn't chosen to hide away alone to remember and grieve. She hadn't explained to him why these sweets were even more special to her than their extreme rarity would explain, but suddenly she recalled the single wilting rose tucked away safely in a book she'd borrowed from Wynne. If she could tell no one else, she needed to tell him.

She took a deep, shaky breath. "Could you just, um. It's just—I want to tell you something first."


	5. Of Rivalry

He really, really hated this. Hated it with a boiling, acidic bile rolling around in his gut and the inability to stop growling.

He just needed to go do something else. He needed not to be there right then. But he'd be arsed if he was going to leave them…unsupervised.

_He was touching her_. The thought kept spiralling through Alistair's mind, each time with a different word emphasised.

_He_. The Assassin. The slimy, smarmy whoreson whom Alistair had actually started to kind of _like_ before _this_ happened. _Him_.

_Her_. His love. His sweet lady, with her beautiful eyes and soft, warm skin that she actually encouraged Alistair to touch and smell and lick and oh Maker. _Her_.

And now he was thinking about _touching_, and not only was he getting a little bothered in _that way_, but he was still so angry because _they_ were touching. His lady was sweaty and panting and stripped down to her leggings and her thin, worn tunic that clung to her damp curves in infuriating ways. The assassin was bare-chested, and Alistair ground his teeth. That was _entirely_ for show, he just _knew_ it.

Why hadn't he agreed to at least try and teach her how to fight like a Templar? Certainly, the skills might have been more effective if she'd been stronger, more of a head-on, skull cracking warrior, but he could have at least _tried_. He'd brought this madness on himself.

He was trying, desperately, to keep his mind from straying into traitorous thoughts of how much better _they_ looked together than he and she ever could. Alistair was just too big, too thick and too gangly all at once, and she was just so compact and quick and dexterous. He felt like a huge lumbering bull next to her, like Sten probably would have felt around everyone if the giant really cared to feel much of anything.

But Zevran— Zevran was just as quick, just as smooth in his movements, and his elven stature made him seem so much less…looming. She didn't have to look miles up at Zevran like a small child staring up at a parent; Zevran wouldn't get a crick in his back from spanning the space between them for the simplest of kisses— oh, he needed to stop thinking about this. Immediately. Sooner, even.

When he managed to beat those thoughts into submission, he was forced back into reality. The monstrous nightmare that was his current reality. The assassin had his _hand_ on her _rear_.

Alistair was on his feet before he really understood what was happening, but he hadn't gotten more than two steps when he saw a flurry of movement, her leg swinging around, and then Zevran landed hard on his back with her knee pressed against his throat.

He knew she was saying something to the assassin and he was half-aware of the muffled, croaking response, but he could definitely see Zevran's hand resting on her thigh, and Alistair could no more control himself at that moment than he could stop the sun from rising. Without further thought he'd scooped her up under his arm, a move she really hated and that he was sure he'd pay dearly for later, and was nearly running back to their tent.

"Alistair!" she shrieked, but he was beyond caring. When they were finally inside the calm, elf-free privacy of their canvas sanctuary, he set her squirming body down gently, already apologizing. She punched him in the arm. Hard.

"Ow! Okay, really _ow_." She was scowling, and Alistair fought to keep his expression completely contrite and not at all relieved that she was away from _him_. Him and his bronzed chest and dirty wandering hands.

"What," she started to say in a rough, dangerous voice and he was trying so hard not to get obviously… interested. But she was still sweaty and her cheeks were pink and her shirt was so clingy— "Dare I ask, was that about?"

"Um." He hadn't been thinking, and now he was very aware that he'd erred. He was also very aware that if he played this situation any more wrongly, he could well be forced into scuttling away, licking his wounds and pitching the tent they now thought of as "extra." The tent that hadn't been put up for weeks.

Then he thought about those sneaky, insidious hands, and a loud, firm voice in his head shouted "Worth it!" He ducked his head, trying to look cowed and pennant. It had taken him years, but he'd perfected this in the Chantry. He'd been the only boy after the Great Kitchen Raid of 9:10 Dragon who'd gotten off with only one switching and had been allowed to keep a cookie as well.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly, and there was a measure of real regret there. He hadn't meant to upset her, truly. "I just, um, I lost my head. I'm a fool, and I am sorry my lady."

"You're an arse," she grumbled, but he knew he'd managed to slip past the danger; there was a promising hint of warmth in her eyes, softening her words ever so slightly. Then she grabbed him by the chin, rather roughly, and brought his face closer to hers.

Here, in their tent, he never had to crane down for her lips. Here they fit together perfectly, better than perfectly, and he wasn't all gawky and she was beautiful and rounded in all the most delicious ways and it was always glorious.

She didn't kiss him. She kept his face held firmly. She was still frowning.

"Tomorrow I will continue my training with Zevran," she said, and he mentally bit his tongue. "You will be elsewhere, hunting or washing your clothes or sitting quietly in the forest contemplating your astonishing good luck. I don't care. What you will not be doing is sitting in camp, stewing."

"But—"

"So help me, Alistair, if you interrupt this vital, possibly life-saving training again in a fit of pique you will sorely regret it. That is all I'll say on the matter." She was deadly serious. There were a great many things she could do to make him suffer. He swallowed back some bile.

"Yes, my love." Her mouth twitched slightly, and Alistair violently shoved all thoughts of stupid Antivans out of his head. Carefully, not taking his eyes off her face, he reached out and touched her knee. When he wasn't warned off, he firmed his touch and slowly slid his hand upwards. "If I may, I think my transgression would be best absolved through some kind of penance. Perhaps doing some good works?"

"Don't pretend like you're not out to stake a claim." She grinned slyly. "Not that I'd argue if you felt the need to _absolve_, or whatever."

Oh, the way she said _absolve _just lit a fire in him— the next time Leliana started lecturing about the Maker's forgiveness he was just going to lose it. He let out a great huff of air and pulled her forward, onto his lap and into a kiss. She moaned into his mouth, pressing tight against him, and he was lost.

When Alistair returned to camp the next evening with a full brace of rabbits slung over his back, the first sight he sought out was her. Training obviously recently finished, she and Zevran were lounging on the grass rather far from the fire, both still shiny with sweat.

The scene had the potential to set Alistair into another frenzy, if it hadn't been for the long, angry line of red that Zevran was dabbing with a poultice where it curved up his belly. The elf was sulking too, wincing and pouting in an obvious plea for sympathy, but his dear sweet love was oblivious.

Her eyes were closed, and her hands folded behind her head. She was stretched out on the sun-warmed grass like a banquet, and Alistair, for once, didn't fault anyone else for enjoying the view. His eyes lingered on the marks he'd left, the marks she insisted he leave the previous night. Two small, pinkish bruises peeked out of her collar, and he knew there was one more just below her left breast, and another, perhaps the sweetest of all, on the inside of her thigh.

He was a bad, bad man, but also luckier than any other bastard who ever lived. Hang the Blight, and hang the taint, and hang the bloody civil war. He had a princess of his very own (although he would never, ever call her that), and she had him. Completely.


	6. Of Faith

It was the kind of conversation that she tried desperately to ignore. The kind of inane bickering that was to be expected, travelling with such diverse companions, but there were days when she dreaded leaving the relative peace of wherever they'd camped. There was always somewhere private to escape to in camp.

Here though, on the road, her only option was to walk a little quicker and keep her eyes straight ahead. Normally, this was not a difficult task; with Leliana and Morrigan sniping at each other behind her, however, she found her concentration wavering.

"Could we run across a bandit ambush or something soon, please?" she murmured to Alistair, who was trying his best to ignore the other women as well. He chuckled, somewhat grimly, and pretended to help adjust her pack as an excuse for leaning close.

"That might help my headache, actually," he said quietly. "Remind me why we brought them both along?"

She growled, flexing her fingers when Leliana's voice shifted up in both pitch and volume. "Because the spiteful one wanted to buy some special herbs, and the sanctimonious one is incredible at haggling. I hate thrice-blighted supply runs."

Alistair pressed a quick kiss against her cheek. "Do I even want to know what vicious descriptor you've got for me when I get your back up?"

"You really don't, no."

"You will be _silent._" Morrigan's words were hard and cold, and impossible to block out. "I will not hear any more of this drivel. If you must evangelise to the heathens, then turn your attentions to another because I am through with you. No more."

Leliana was barely affected; her face was pinched into a frown and her arms were folded tightly across her chest, but it appeared as if she would hold her ground.

By this point, all illusions of actually walking back to camp were abandoned. They'd all stopped moving, and the Grey Wardens were watching the argument with frustration from a few paces away.

"It is not driv—"

"No." Morrigan held up one hand, and the bard fell silent. Any gesture from a witch should be taken very seriously.

Alistair shifted his stance and the air around him stilled as he drew on some of his training. If Morrigan started anything, he would likely try and dispel it as quickly as possible.

"All I ask, _sister_," Morrigan hissed. "Is some equality in your inane wittering. Chastise the qunari, if you seek unbelievers. Regale the dwarves with your mindless Chantry dogma." At this, she pointed vaguely in the direction of the Wardens. "I am not the only one in this ragtag collection of miscreants who has more respect for the existence of dung stuck to the bottom of a shoe than for your blessed Maker, yet I am the only one you feel the need to constantly harass."

"Enough!" This had gone on too long, and she refused to get pulled into it with them. Putting on her 'fearless leader face' (which was what Alistair called it), she suddenly had all of their attention. "We're less than half and hour from camp, and we will continue there now. You will both stop this discussion until we arrive. I will not be distracted by your squabbling for one more step."

She didn't wait for their responses, whether begrudging agreement or mutinous. Beyond caring if they followed at all, she turned sharply and started walking down the dirt path that would lead them back to camp. Camp, where dry socks and a crackling fire waited, hopefully with some sort of food ready. Ancestors' mercy, she missed dusty stone and sulphuric heat.

The rest of their trip was uneventful, and quiet. Even here, where the sky was too large and the stones too few, the Ancestors heard her plea and kept her sane. She sighed as she tossed her pack down beside the tent, stretching her shoulders and squeezing Alistair's hand when he reached for hers.

"I'm fine," she said, pre-empting the concerned question furrowing his brow. "I'll be better after we eat."

"They've gone to their corners, at least." Alistair motioned over to where Morrigan had begun setting up her fire, even farther away than usual. Leliana was in her own tent.

"If I ever try to take them both somewhere again, check me for a cracked skull. Obviously some rocks have come loose, if I even considered that might be a good idea this morning."

"It was worse than usual," Alistair mused, mostly to himself, then shook his head slightly and tugged her hand. "Come on; Wynne cooked supper. If it tastes half as good as it smells you might even smile tonight."

She allowed herself to be lead over to the fire, and she didn't argue when Alistair sat her down on a blanket and went to get them both a bowl of stew. When he returned a moment later, she ate slowly and silently, leaning against his side.

"I'm sorry I'm grumpy," she said finally. "I'm just tired."

"And well within your rights to be, as well." Alistair gathered her empty bowl up and set it aside with his. When his arm came up around her, drawing her even closer, she let her head rest on his shoulder. Later, when they were alone in their tent, she would bury her face in his chest and be overwhelmed for a little while. Not yet, though.

After supper was cleared away, but before watch shifts were set to begin, Zevran padded over, Oghren woke up, and somehow the four of them ended up playing cards. When her fellow dwarf belched loudly and slammed down a particularly bad hand with a curse she hadn't heard in what felt like years, she laughed. Her smile almost reached her eyes. When she and Zev began trying to see who could out-cheat the other, with the other two completely oblivious, she felt the weight on her chest get a little lighter.

Then it was truly night, and those not on first watch walked (or stumbled) back to their respective tents. She waved off Alistair's quiet protests, kissed him briefly, and started her slow patrol of the perimeter. He headed off in the other direction; they would meet in a little while when their patrols intersected.

After one circuit, the pair of them hunkered down with their backs to the fire, staring out into the dark of the forest. With the mabari and now Shale as their mostly-vigilant sentinels, watch shifts had become a little more relaxed. It was there that Leliana found them, about a half hour before the start of second watch.

The bard made just enough noise that it was clear she wanted her approach to be heard. Then she stood there in the flickering light of the low burning fire, twisting her fingers.

"Hello." Alistair spoke first, and Leliana squirmed a little more. "You're early."

"I, um, I wished to speak with you." Leliana was not looking at Alistair at all. "Could we—"

"Leliana." She kept her tone kindly, even if she was still more than a little annoyed with the bard. She just needed a good night's sleep. "If you've come to apologise, thank you, but it's all right. I know Morrigan can be rather prickly." If anything, that made Leliana look more nervous. This did not bode well. "If, well, if you've decided to give Morrigan's suggestion a go, now's really not the best time."

"I just—" Leliana's lovely voice cracked, and she appeared as if she might cry. The situation had become bizarre without much warning. "I never thought— I mean, I knew that the dwarven people had their own religion, but you asked the Revered Mother in Lothering for her blessing, and again in Redcliffe, and I just—"

"Leliana, just leave it." Alistair sounded commanding in a way he rarely tried to, but also weary. They were all stretched too thin.

"We are friends, yes?" Yet his warning went unheeded. "Please." The added request, _please tell me that the witch is wrong, please tell me you are not a godless heathen_, went unspoken but not unheard.

"Leliana, you are my dear friend. You know that." A ragtag collection of miscreants. She had learned long ago that she could not please them all, all of the time. But when it came to their friendships and their loyalties she preferred not to lie, even if it meant losing face. What good would a friendship be, built on a foundation of falsehoods? "Do my beliefs really mean so much to you?"

"I just want to understand." Sounding more and more like a lost child, Leliana twisted one of her rings fretfully. "It feels wrong that I did not know this, that I assumed."

"All right." She took a deep breath, and despite the discomfort of the situation, she felt warmer. Thoughts such as these made the cold and the dampness recede. "I am of the Dwarva, and thus I am of the Stone. It is from the Stone I derive my strength, my will, and my life. When I die, I hope to go to the Stone and, with the Ancestors, make It stronger. That is all there is. I have no Maker; I bow to no god."

"But in Lothering—"

"That was meant to curry favour with the Revered Mother and the other humans, as it was in Redcliffe. I know humans do not understand the Stone, but I do not scorn your Maker." She paused, trying to read the woman standing before her. It was difficult, so she spoke very carefully. "I hope this does not diminish your affection for me. I would miss your friendship greatly."

"No, of course not!" It was obvious that her answer had deflated Leliana somewhat, but at least the bard's hands stopped wringing. "I'm just glad to know." The smile she gave the Wardens was a little watery, but strangely relieved as well. "Thank you for humouring me, dear friend. Now, you two scoot. Your watch is over, or may as well be. I will fetch Zevran in a moment, but I will sit until then. Please, go."

Perhaps, had she been less exhausted, she might have protested the deviation from the schedule. It was important to keep these things on track. As it was, however, she got to her feet with decidedly less grace than usual and lurched over to the tent, Alistair in tow.

She managed to pull off her gloves, but her fingers were rubbery as she struggled with the buckles of her leathers, only getting them partially unfastened in the time it took Alistair to pull himself out of the splint mail he'd worn that day. He was kneeling close to her, and his calloused hands pushed hers away from the clumsy mess she was making.

The leather dropped away, and she felt her muscles cry out in relief. Alistair tossed the hardened hide into the corner to clink against his mail. He kissed her fingers. "You know, the sight of you being all thumbs would be funny if not for my aching heart. You're worn out, my love."

"We're all worn out." She pulled the hem of her thin wool tunic up over her head, getting her hair caught as she removed it. She swore, then simply threw herself on the bedroll, still wearing her leather leggings and boots. "I give up," she muttered into the blankets. "You're the leader now. I'm done. Don't let Sten push you around, and don't kill Morrigan. Remember to feed the dog."

"Thanks for the advice." After a moment of blissful quiet, ignoring the fact that she was smothering herself just slightly, she felt a tug on one leg. She fought the urge to kick, and her boot slid off easily. The other followed after. Then she felt him settle down behind her, pressing against her back and curling around her. His hand stroked along the hip of her leggings.

"I hate this," she said, quietly enough that she half hoped he didn't hear her. He kissed her bare shoulder.

"I'd be worried if you enjoyed it, honestly." He was murmuring against her ear, and the feel of his breath was making her warm. She wriggled back against him. "I'm assuming now that you mean the whole Blight thing, and the last hope for Ferelden thing, and you don't mean cuddling with me."

"You do smell a bit." She turned her head a little, face free from the blankets, and peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. "But no, I don't mean you, or cuddling. Just never mind. I'm being stupid and maudlin."

"You're stronger than any of us." His hand moved from her hip to her belly and rested there, comfortingly. "You keep us fighting, and keep us together. You have no idea how sorry I am that all that rests on you, but it's also why I love you. Because you are so amazing and so incredible and I thank the Maker everyday that you're here and in my life."

At the mention of the Maker, she shifted around to look at him squarely. "Are things going to be strange with Leliana now? Did I do the right thing?"

"I think you did the only sensible thing in a somewhat insane situation. I think she'll just have to get over herself, and it's good that she's learning. It's not the first time we've had an incident like this."

She frowned, remembering. "The elf thing."

Alistair sighed. "And now she and Zevran get along much better."

"Yes, now that she realises she was looking at him like a prized animal. I know she means well, and she is a good friend, but sometimes I am surprised at how small her world has been." She couldn't help chuckling at herself. "And this from the woman who grew up in a cave."

Alistair shook his head. "Okay, could we not talk about Leliana anymore please? I was going for a really romantic moment and you changed the subject." She reached up and touched his jaw, but he wasn't finished. "What I was _trying_ to say was that, yes, you have to be strong and brave and you have those difficult, world-saving responsibilities, but that's just out there." He motioned to the tent flap. "Even I need you to be a hero out there. But in here? Can you please just let me help? Can you please let yourself be weak and sad and tired and all those other painful things?"

"Alistair—"

"Just wait. I know I already see more of you than they do—" He gently poked the tip of her nose with one finger. "And that wasn't a joke about your lovely, secret bits either so don't start. What I mean is, I know you already confide in me, and vent at me, and cry on my shoulder, but I can take more. I want to take more. I don't want you to bottle half of it all up just to protect me." He brushed some hair away from her forehead. "In here, my lady, I am your knight. In here, I can take everything you've got, and I will always come back for more. I love you."

She searched his face, his eyes, and what she saw there made her throat tighten. She tucked her head under his chin, blinking hotly. "How did I manage to find you? Truly?"

"More good luck than good sense, I'd wager." Her laughter was a little hysteric, but he didn't comment. He just held her until she stopped shaking. When she pulled away to sit up a little, he pretended not to notice how she wiped at her face.

"All right, ser knight," she said, and there was a twinkle in her tired smile. "Get me out of these leggings."

"As you please, lady."


	7. Of Revenge

Alistair was elbow deep in scrubbing his laundry, his hands already gone numb in the cold water of the stream. He had a small pile of her laundry as well, and he was glad for the distance between the stream and camp. It was ridiculous, but he could already feel the tips of his ears heat up at the thought of washing her unmentionables.

He was laying out his shirt on a nearby rock when he noticed he had company. He hadn't heard her approach, but if asked he would blame that on the sound of gurgling water rather than on his own wandering mind.

"That's very sweet of you," she said, motioning to her dirty clothes. He huffed out a breath, not willing to wait for the joke.

"Yes it is, isn't it." He shot her a withering glare, but she ignored him in favour of glancing back at camp. She seemed quite distracted, which was not at all conducive to Alistair making his point. Before he could grab her attention, however, she started talking again. Her voice was low and secretive.

"If I told you something, something maybe you wouldn't approve of, you would still love me, right?"

"If this is about you stealing my very last pair of clean socks, I already know. Why do you think I'm doing _our_ laundry? I figured if I only did mine, I'd be out of clothes again in half the time." There, he sounded suitably grumpy. Take that, sock thief.

"What? No, this is not about socks. Though, yes, I did take yours. They're thicker than mine."

Despite confirmation of his suspicions, Alistair frowned, confused and now a little worried. "Okay then, out with it. What am I not going to approve of?"

"It's nothing about us," she assured, and for the first time since this whole conversation began he had her full attention. "I'm sorry, I probably sounded terribly ominous."

"Yeah, little bit." He felt his stomach unclench. "Just spit it out, then."

"That nug—" She jerked her chin in the general direction of camp. "Would it, um, would it make me a terrible friend if I was secretly wishing it had some sort of accident?"

Well, that was unexpected. He blinked at her. "What?"

She sighed, kicking absently at the small rocks along the riverbank. "I mean, I know I bought her the blighted thing, and she just loves it so much, but Oghren and I were talking last night, and it really made me… crave. The feeling of home."

"I'm not sure I—" No, she couldn't possibly mean _that_. "You want to eat Schmooples!"

"Would you keep your voice down," she hissed.

"That's just _awful! _ You are a _terrible_ friend."

"Oh for the love of—"

"I can't believe you'd even _think_ that, let alone _tell_ someone you were thinking it. Maker's mercy, woman—"

"All right, stop making fun of me." He bit his lip, trying not to let his grin break through. She looked more than a little annoyed, but he'd had nothing but crusty old socks to wear that morning, after having gone to sleep secure in the knowledge of a fresh pair tucked away in his pack. "Just forget I said anything. I mean it."

She didn't wait for him to reply, which was probably for the best. He watched her storm off, and when he was confident she was out of earshot he let himself cackle softly. Ah, sweet retribution!


	8. Of History

"Tell me, my beautiful Grey Warden—" Alistair felt his hackles rise at the sound of that smooth, accented voice. He still could not _believe_ she'd agreed to take the assassin along. The man was Trouble with a big, blaring capital T, Alistair just _knew _it.

The elf continued, oblivious to the death glare he was receiving from across the fire. He had eyes only for the dwarf woman stirring the simmering pot of soup. "I will admit to knowing little of your people, but I am somewhat surprised to find a fellow rogue in one of the Dwarven race. I understood yours to be… sturdy people, more inclined towards techniques of strength rather than subtlety."

She laughed— the Blight take all stupid, flirty Antivans— and leaned back on her hands. "It is your misfortune then, Zevran, that you know so very little of my people."

"Ah, but I am eager to learn, especially from a tutor so divinely wrought. I have been told I can be an enthusiastic student, given the proper _incentive_." Alistair growled quietly, and considered kicking at the fire. Maybe he'd tip the soup over and scald the bastard.

She was smiling, but she wasn't blushing. That was good, he thought. "Dwarves are naturally just as dexterous as we are strong. One needs nimble fingers to work metal and stone into intricate designs, and especially to work lyrium. Do you know anything of the Dwarven caste system?"

"Beg pardon, sweet woman, but I am an empty vessel."

Alistair noticed Leliana had moved in a little closer as well, probably hoping to pull some interesting story out of the conversation. Wynne had retired to her tent to rest a while before supper, Morrigan was being her usual anti-social self, and Sten was a silent monolith. The dog had disappeared somewhere, probably looking for more disgusting presents to leave in Morrigan's pack. Alistair was really growing to like the dog.

"Every dwarf in Orzammar, where I'm from, is born into a caste. Whatever caste one is born into determines what kind of life one is able to have. There are seven castes, from nobles to servants, as well as those considered casteless." If he ignored the lecherous elf sitting _far_ too close to her, Alistair could almost enjoy the history lesson. Dwarves were usually such an enigmatic race when it came to discussing their lives below ground.

"Warriors have their own caste, considered the second highest, just below the noble caste. Most dwarves who train in strength-based combat are of the warrior caste. It's much more likely that nobles and lower castes, if they train in combat at all, tend to focus more on cleverness than brute force. Politics and poverty both breed a need for cunning."

"Very true." Then Zevran asked the question they had all be considering. "And what of you, dear Warden? From what fine caste do you hail?"

If the question hadn't so obviously upset her, Alistair might have been a little excited that the other man had made such a blunder. He wasn't. He remembered, vividly, the same frosty expression on her face when he'd mentioned her tattoos weeks before.

"I am a Grey Warden. I have no caste." Zevran shrunk back, clearly surprised at the shift in mood. Alistair wanted to slap him, just a little.

"I approve of that system," Sten grumbled suddenly. "Everyone would know their place. It would be a good start."

"Yes," she said, staring into the fire. "I thought you might like it, Sten."


	9. Of Distractions

She was so very, very beautiful.

Certainly, the other young women travelling with them had their charms. He wasn't blind. Maybe it was strange that his gaze lingered so much longer on her than either of them.

Leliana was lovely, in her way, but she was just too… Chantry. Maker this, Andraste that—he'd had more than enough of that in his life, thank you.

Morrigan was…yuck. Nasty and evil, and no matter what she looked like it still didn't change the fact that she _talked_.

But _her_. Ever since she'd called him handsome. Ever since she'd joked about dreaming of them together, in her tent. He just couldn't stop watching her. It was getting dangerous.

Watching her eat, watching her oil her armour, watching her sit by the campfire and read— all those things were dangerous in an embarrassing way. What if she caught him staring, all slack-jawed and lecherous?

But when he caught himself watching her _climb an ogre_, and had less than pure thoughts about the way the skirt of her armour flipped about her thighs and the way her chest heaved when she plunged both of her blades hilt-deep in the monster's neck… that was a different kind of dangerous all together.

He'd managed to make it out of that fight with his brains intact, but just barely. If Zevran hadn't been right there to slit that hurlock's throat, the hurlock Alistair hadn't noticed coming up on his flank, things might have ended a little differently. As it was, all he'd had to contend with was a knowing smirk and bruised pride at being caught gawking by the assassin. Really, it was only slightly better than becoming darkspawn chow.

Later that evening, when they'd finally made camp after a gruelling day of slaughtering all monstrous fiends in their path, he found himself caught unawares _again_. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Zevran chuckled, close enough that he felt hot breath against his ear.

"The view _is_ spectacular, my friend." Alistair cursed as quietly as only a former Chantry boy could, and considered how quick he'd have to move to just break the smarmy little Antivan's neck right there. "You seem altogether…_enraptured_."

"Please don't purr so close to me. It gives me nightmares." Zevran laughed again, then clapped Alistair on the back in a brotherly way. It was the first time Alistair had ever regretted getting out of his armour at the end of a long day. Maybe if he'd left it on, the smug little lecher would've hurt his hand.

"May we speak man to man, Alistair?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course, and if I may, you're making precisely the wrong one! Look at that—" Zevran motioned over to the view that had most recently caught Alistair's attention. There she was, sitting by the edge of the fire and grinding deathroot into a small pot. The warm, flickering light played across her skin; her face and neck shimmered like the smoothest gold, and shadows played in the curve of her breasts. "How can you not partake in such a glorious bounty when all can see that she is, for whatever reason, besotted with you? How can you be so selfish?"

"Selfish? _What_?"

Zevran tutted, crossing his arms. "There is an expression in Antiva, I am not so sure it translates directly. The closest, I think, would be 'shit, or get off the pot.'" Then that too pretty, too creepy face went all serious. "There are others who would _worship_ such a woman, were she at their disposal. To leave her unsatisfied, yet still unavailable— _that_ is selfish, my friend. It is also all I will say on the matter."

Then Alistair was standing alone, staring at the empty space the assassin had so recently occupied. He felt headache bloom behind his eyes.

Retreating from the fire, away from the dual tortures of nosy elves and shadowy, sumptuous bosoms, Alistair considered his options. He certainly knew what he _wanted_, and oh Maker did he _want_. He just—

He _cared_ about her. He'd told her as much when he'd given her that fool rose. But what was one meant to do then?

Battling darkspawn? He was your man. Bringing down dangerous apostates? Just call Alistair. Need a sharp, hilarious wit on an otherwise gloomy mission? Look no further.

Romancing a woman? A gorgeous, intelligent, spirited woman who lit his very soul on fire— well, he was a fumbling _boy_.

One warm spring day, when he was about nine years old and still living at Redcliffe, he'd happened upon a small wooden box in the back of Bann Teagan's armoire. Of course, Teagan hadn't been a bann then, but he had been a bit like an older brother.

_Happened upon_ probably wasn't the most accurate choice of words either. He'd been hiding from one of his tutors, and Teagan's closet had seemed like a good idea at the time. Then, as nine-year-old boys were wont to do, he got bored.

In his defence, the box had only been hidden behind a loose panel. It's not like anything had been locked.

He remembered opening the closet door just a crack, letting in a sliver of light. There were cards inside the box, made of thick creamy paper. There was an elegant woman painted on the first card, with a long pale neck and dressed in a blue silk robe. She was lying on a chaise, and her provocative pose had made young Alistair's stomach tingle. Then he'd thumbed the card open and nearly dropped the whole box.

The same woman, painted in the same pose, but she had _no clothes on_. Once young Alistair had gotten his breathing under control, he'd checked the rest of the cards to make sure the first wasn't a fluke. A dozen gorgeous women, all in various, sultry positions, and all unclothed if one happened to open their cards.

Nine were humans, two were elves, and one, one was a dwarf. He remembered that she was…generously endowed, and sitting on an anvil (something he now realised was rather corny and maybe a little racist). She had long dark hair pinned up in braids, and a gentle smile.

His lady (hardly _yours_, he reminded himself sharply) looked quite different than his memory of that risqué painting. That didn't stop him from imagining how significant those differences might be, however. Under the steel and the leather and the rough wool, would she be soft curves and welcoming warmth?

He shook his head fiercely, trying to dislodge those thoughts. They were no more than a day outside Redcliffe— that was why his mind was straying to such fancies. He already had worry gnawing away in his gut about Arl Eamon's illness, and about the strangeness they'd found in Brother Genitivi's home when they'd followed the lead from the late Ser Henric's note.

He needed to focus. One of the lessons the Chantry made sure to beat into its templars was how to resist temptation. Purity of spirit, purity of body, all that hogwash. He would just focus on the mission, not on the curve of her back and the slightly cheeky smile she had just for him.

Then there were undead, and demons, and she managed to save them _all_, and she even found his mother's amulet, so maybe he could be forgiven if his focus was just blown away.


	10. Of Distractions II

She had always been bold— an unfortunate side effect of being raised Aeducan, her tutors had muttered to themselves, while her suitors invariably used it as an excuse for their failures. Bhelen had always been the favourite of their childhood instructors, with his quiet reserve and studious nature. She and Trian, well, they'd always been more than a little wilful. It was, perhaps, why they quarrelled with each other so often.

She'd always tried to balance her headstrong temperament with some measure of prudence, however, especially when it came to the mire of politics. It was this balance that made her better loved than her older brother, and more respected than her younger throughout Orzammar.

With the current…situation, though, she found herself completely stymied about what course to take. Should she follow the bold path or the cautious? Neither was without risk, but she couldn't just sit back and do nothing either.

It was that question that distracted her while she sat on some deadfall in the failing light and honed her dagger; she cursed loudly when the newly sharpened edge bit into her finger. The cut was deep, and her blood bloomed bright red, dripping onto the snow at her feet before she could put any pressure on it.

Sten glanced up at her from where he knelt, building up the fire. They'd camped for the evening, and the weather on the mountainside was decidedly chilly.

"You are injured." She bit back a scathing retort about stating the obvious, but then was sorry she had when the unflappable giant continued. "Qunari children know better than to cut themselves on their own blades."

"Just get me a bandage," she snarled, and Sten put another log on the fire before standing and going to fetch their bag of healing supplies. They'd brought extra along on this trip because they'd left Wynne behind to keep watch on Arl Eamon. As sensible as that had seemed at the time, it suddenly felt like less of a good idea. Her hand was throbbing.

Sten walked over, dropping the pack of supplies beside her. "Had you at least cleaned your poisons from the blade before you began hacking at your own appendages?"

"Yes, the knife was clean. Just sharp." She gritted her teeth, waiting for the bleeding to slow a little more before she attempted to reach for some salve and a bandage. She knew Sten wasn't happy with their current detour, but he hadn't said anything outright yet. Slowly, she unclenched her fingers from around the wound and began rummaging around the bag one-handed. Sten watched her struggle for a moment, then turned and walked back to stare at the fire.

By the time Alistair returned from his scouting, making sure their camp was relatively secure, she'd managed to smear the cut with elfroot paste, and was chewing a few leaves while she picked at the tangle of clean bandages. Someone hadn't rolled the cloths back up neatly, and they were nearly in knots. The leaves tasted sweet and dulled the throbbing a bit, but she knew the mashed root on the wound would do much more in the long run.

"Maker, what happened?" She shook her head a little at his alarm, still embarrassed at her own clumsiness.

"Cut myself. I'm fine. Where's Morrigan?"

Alistair's face was drawn into a deep frown, and he was staring at her hand as he knelt beside her. "I've no idea. She caught up with me long enough to say that the lower forest was secure, then she turned into some kind of bat thing and flew away."

"Really?" Ignoring the question, Alistair reached out hesitantly and cradled her injured hand in one of his. The cut was mostly just seeping now, but the evidence of how much it had been bleeding was still dark around her boots. She'd had much worse of course, but it was still a lot of blood without a battle to show for it.

"Let me do that," he said, reaching for the bandages. He pulled a cloth free with a few tugs, then very gently began to wrap it around her finger.

"That's not tight enough." He stopped, looking into her eyes for the first time since he'd arrived. She saw the tightness around his mouth.

"I don't want to hurt you." She couldn't let those words go to her head. That was exactly how she'd gotten into this predicament in the first place.

"You've done this before. It has to be tighter or it will start bleeding again." When he still looked uncertain, she said something she probably shouldn't have. "Come on, you know I'm hardly a gentle flower."

If pressed, she would have blamed the flush of her cheeks on the cold and the wind. Alistair cleared his throat, then without speaking further he unwrapped what he had done and started again. She couldn't help sucking in a harsh breath when the bandage tightened.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, almost inaudibly, but kept wrapping. Then, a moment later, her wound was completely dressed. She spat out the elfroot leaves, realising a heartbeat after she did that _spitting_ was hardly attractive, but Alistair scarcely seemed to notice. He was still holding her hand.

The fire cracked and hissed as Sten poked at it with a long stick, and Alistair finally acknowledged the qunari's presence. His voice was surprisingly harsh.

"So what, are your arms broken or something?" She reflected, briefly, on how badly that statement could be received, but Sten barely moved. The boulder of a man just tilted his head slightly.

"No, and neither are hers. Despite her best efforts to incapacitate herself."

They really couldn't afford to fight each other—not with what felt like almost everyone else out for their blood. "Alistair, just leave it. Please."

Alistair grunted begrudgingly and his hand slipped away. She curled her injured hand close to her chest and shifted over on the log she was sitting on, making room for another, larger body. His armour creaked and clinked as he moved to sit next to her.

She decided to try and steer the conversation into more neutral territory, reaching down to pick up her dagger from where it had fallen. "What are we going to do about supper?" She wiped the traces of her blood off the steel quickly, then sheathed the blighted thing.

Alistair shrugged. "Didn't see much sign of game about. Dip into the rations for tonight, maybe?"

"Hardtack and salt beef? Mm, yummy." She made a face, hoping for a laugh, and wasn't disappointed.

"Could be worse," Alistair chuckled. "Remember that mess Zevran tried to force on us on the way back to Redcliffe? I mean, I don't mind a good chowder, but those fish from Lake Calenhad smelled funny. And I think one of them tried to talk to me."

"That ferryman warned us. Weird stuff in the mages' lake." She sighed dramatically, then pulled herself to her feet. "Come on then. Let's see if dear Leliana managed to sneak us poor travellers a treat before we left."

"I doubt it. She wasn't at all happy being left behind, and _someone_ was adamant we pack light for this little adventure."

She shoved him playfully as he tried to stand, and he fell back on the log with a huff. "I'm so sorry I didn't feel like climbing a mountain with a king's entourage, or a bronto's weight in gear on my back."

"Yeah, right. _My_ back, you mean."

Before they had a chance to break out their evening's modest fare, Morrigan strode out of the trees carrying three fat, limp pheasants by their craggy little feet. The birds' heads were, more or less, no longer present.

"Here." She tossed the carcasses near the fire. "Help yourselves. I have already eaten." If there was a small smear of blood at the corner of the witch's mouth, no one mentioned it.

"I will clean them." It could have been Sten being kind, or Sten being practical, but she knew the offer was actually Sten being smart-arsed one more time. She or Zevran usually volunteered to butcher small game, because it took a certain deftness to do it properly, but she'd be a mud-faced nug if she was going to rise to this bait. Let the cranky qunari get covered in guts and feathers.

"Thank you, Morrigan," she said instead. The witch glanced at her bandages, then held out her own hand in an obvious demand to examine the injury. "I'm _fine_. It's a little cut, and Alistair bandaged it. It should be almost healed by tomorrow with the poultice on it."

"As you wish." Morrigan shrugged off the refusal unconcernedly. "You should know that there are almost no animals farther up this mountain. It is unnaturally desolate for so healthy a forest."

"Great," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "That's not ominous at all."

"It is extremely ominous, in fact." The witch delicately wiped at her lips with her thumb. "Not that I do not recognise the sarcasm, but I must make it clear that there is something deeply wrong in this place. We should be wary."

"All right, what do you suggest?" Certainly, she could sneak and fight and talk her way out of most situations, and perhaps she was overconfident in her skills by times, but here in the depths of a dark, cold forest she was very aware of the limitations of her experience. "I do not know forests as you do."

"If you are determined to continue this fool quest, then 'tis not much to be done. We must simply carry on into unknown danger." When Morrigan smiled almost imperceptibly, it was surprising but not unwelcome. Giving her that grimoire they'd looted from the tower had been a good idea. "Is it truly any worse than the activities we normally find ourselves caught up in? Slaughtering undead, darkspawn, abominations, and the like?"

The wind gusted suddenly, and she shivered. "Fair point. Maybe we should have taken the others with us."

Alistair piped up, looking somewhat concerned at the prospect of unknown danger. "I think I said that. You know, when we found out the arl's knights had all _disappeared_."

She moved to stand closer to the fire, tucking her hands carefully under her arms. "I'm not willing to turn back now. We've got a full day's hard travel behind us, and Eamon may be on borrowed time."

She needed at least one person's full support in order to justify (to herself, at the very least) the decision to continue this mission, and she certainly couldn't look for that from Morrigan or Sten. They were climbing a mountain to find the holy desiccated remains of a human prophetess. A woman who, in this dwarf's estimation, was much more likely to have simply been an accomplished general who also happened to be a few pebbles short of a full load.

But it didn't matter what she believed. Truly, she didn't care one way or the other if Andraste had actually been the Maker's chosen bride, or whatever. What mattered, and what kept her trudging up this blighted mountain, was the politics of it all. Politics, she believed in.

If Eamon died, the boy Connor would become arl in name only, and Bann Teagan would be his voice. That voice would be stronger behind their cause if Teagan knew they'd done all in their power to try and save his brother. She'd watched her father do crazier things over the years, all in the name of gaining Assembly support.

There was even a chance, remote or not, that truth lurked behind the legend. If they could find some magical relic atop this peak, something that could actually cure whatever affliction had felled the arl, all the better. Teagan might be an honourable, well-respected man among the human nobility, but he was still only a bann. Loghain was a teyrn, and a war hero.

"You're right," Alistair said, and she felt some measure of relief. Blessed Stone, the man was the only one of them who actually half-believed in the Sacred Ashes' powers. "We have to at least try."

They got the pheasants roasting in short order, and were all very quiet for the rest of the evening. There was an uncomfortable tension in the air, both between the campmates and radiating from the murky forest. It was unlikely that any of them would sleep soundly.

She'd retreated inside her tent to escape the brunt of the wind, but had left the flap tied open. Just as the sun set completely and true darkness began to creep up to the edges of camp, Alistair appeared at the opening. He wasn't smiling.

"Can I talk to you?"

She put aside the map she'd been peering at by the light of a small lantern. "Of course." Hugging her blanket cocoon tighter around herself, she made a decision. "I'm not going back out there. You'll have to come in."

Alistair hesitated, but after only a moment of uncertainty and a glance around the camp, he crawled inside and closed the flap behind him. His cheeks and nose were pink, but that might have been from the cold.

She bit her lip, aware she probably looked like a child wrapped up in quilts and waiting for a story. "Are we being secretive? You look all sorts of cagey."

Alistair frowned a little more, giving himself eyebrow wrinkles. "Yes we are, and no I don't. I'm a model of covertness."

She giggled softly, amazed that this man could make her _giggle_ of all things, and peered up at him in the dim light. "And what is it you're being covert about?"

"It's Sten." We'll, that was a sobering thought. "He's making me nervous with the whole mutinous glares and leaving you to bleed to death thing."

"It was only a flesh wound." She shrugged her blankets around, getting more comfortable. "But I get your point. Are you worried he'll leave?"

"I'm worried he'll mush us all into thick red jam in our sleep, truth be told, but leaving would be bad too. I don't want to be a man down on this journey. Or be jam."

"He won't mush us. As much as I'm sure he thinks I've lost what little sense a woman can have, he respects me enough not to kill me unless I can see it coming."

"And what about me?" Alistair groaned as he finally lowered himself out of his squat and into a sitting position. "It was my idea to go see the arl in the first place, and I know I've been adamant about trying to save him. Maybe at the expense of time…better spent." It was obvious those words had been difficult to say. "What if Sten just wants me out of the way? For the greater good and all."

"You're seriously asking me that?"

"It's a legitimate concern, and I don't appreciate the incredulous tone. He is a giant, and he's already murdered people."

Just as happened every time murder was mentioned, in regards to Sten or Zevran or more recently that unfortunate blood mage Jowan, she thought about Trian. She could taste bile.

"Sten's not going to murder any one of us in cold blood. Especially not you." She forced a grin. "Besides, he knows that if he killed you I'd slit his throat. It's one of the rules."

"Wait, that's not a good smile— you just went all sad. What did I say? I'm sorry—"

She cursed inside her head; she'd _never_ been this easy to read. Denying her shift in mood would do no good. "It's not important, and it's not your fault. Just memories, that's all."

She hadn't told any of her companions about her previous life in Orzammar. It was one reason she'd felt inclined to so easily forgive Alistair for keeping his birthright a secret, even when it could have been vital tactical information. The past was past, and time could wear away even the hardest stone.

"Hey." He reached out and touched her foot where it rested under a swath of blanket. "You've got too much piling on your shoulders as it is. If there's anything you want to talk about, I want to listen." He cleared his throat, still holding her ankle gently. "You're not alone."

Half her hand had gone numb from the poultice doing its work. The tingling along the edges of the numbness reminded her of her distraction, and of her conundrum. She could not allow herself to be a dithering girl. Still, to fight the heaviness in her chest she fell back into a droll tone.

"Do you really want to delve into my dark and unpleasant past right now? Wouldn't you rather get some sleep before your watch shift?"

"You're not fooling me, you know." Alistair's voice was still soft; he wasn't rising to the promise of a joke, for once. "Something's been bothering you on and off for a while now."

She was strangely relieved at being asked this. Asked by Alistair, with his well-meaning, straightforward sweetness. Now would be the time to reveal her past, and see how he'd react. Maybe he'd be so disgusted at her deliberate and selfish kinslaying that the question of their feelings for each other would cease plaguing her.

She sighed. "The short version then. You can ask questions when I'm done."

"All right." Where to begin? How short could her short version be?

"My family name is Aeducan." When his face showed no recognition, she continued. "I want you to know that I've never told a surfacer this before. Not even Duncan knew the details, and he pulled me out of the Deep Roads."

"I am honoured, lady." Not even a hint of joking. He really was honoured she'd share this with him. She felt her heart flutter a little, and squelched the feeling.

"I was a woman of some importance in Orzammar." Stone take her, she owed him better than that half-arsed tripe. "Ah, blight it— my father is Endrin Aeducan. _King_ Endrin, of Orzammar."

"_What?_" Alistair's eyes had gone wide. "_What?_"

"I'll answer all your questions, I promise. Just, let me finish." She took a deep, steadying breath. "Duncan knew who my father was. He knew I was a…princess." Alistair made a strange strangled sound, but she ignored him. "What he didn't know was why he'd found me wandering the Deep Roads, alone and barely armoured, only days after he'd watched me accept my first military command.

"I have—_had_, two brothers. Trian was my elder, and a hot-headed lout. Bhelen was the youngest. You need to understand, Dwarven politics are vicious and underhanded, and so when Bhelen told me that Trian was planning to have me killed, I believed him.

"I followed my father's orders and entered the Deep Roads with a few soldiers to retrieve an ancient relic, accessible only to my family. There were mercenaries waiting for me in the old Thaig, and they had Trian's signet ring. They wanted me to show them to the relic's hiding place, and they would use the ring to retrieve it for Trian's honour. Trian didn't just want me dead, he wanted me shamed as well.

"My men and I, we killed the mercenaries easily. I took the ring to prove Trian's treachery to Father. Then we found the relic, and began our return home."

She knew her voice had gone flinty, not at all the weepy tones of a repentant kinslayer. She pushed on. "I met Trian near the entrance to the Roads. He had a few of his own men with him, and he was spoiling for a fight. We exchanged words, but Bhelen had us both convinced of the other's intent. It was…inevitable, when Trian attacked.

"I fought hard, assured my blade was justified. I didn't want to kill my own brother, but I felt I had little choice. Then, when it was over, Trian lay at my feet. The boy I'd grown up with, who'd pulled my braids and taught me how to hold a sword, and I'd slid it into his belly. My braids were wet with his blood.

"My father arrived moments later. Bhelen, that _worm_, had warned him of my _monstrous plot_ to murder Trian. And there I was, kneeling over the still warm body of my own kin. Bhelen had even convinced the soldiers who had fought beside me, through bribes or threats, to give false testimony.

"They said I'd tricked Trian, approached him as a friend then attacked without warning. They said I'd looted his body and stole his signet. My father had no choice but to arrest me.

"I was meant to stand trial, but Bhelen had the Assembly in his pocket. I was sentenced to die in the Deep Roads. That's where I found Duncan." She didn't realise her cheeks were wet until Alistair reached out and wiped away some of the tears. His eyes were glittering in the light of the lantern, and he looked so very sad.

"I was told—" Her hard voice cracked, and she swallowed thickly. "I was told my father fell ill afterwards. He is not young, and the grief of losing two of his children... I worry for him." She touched the back of Alistair's hand where it still rested lightly against her face. "That's why I can't really fault Sten for doing what he did. We're both murderers, living second chances."

He didn't try and offer meaningless platitudes about her innocence, and for that she was tremendously grateful. She'd felt Trian's flesh give way under her sword. She would _always_ be guilty of that.

"So there you go. Dark and unpleasant past revealed." He didn't look disgusted. He didn't look at her like most of the prison guards had, like her very existence made them ill. He didn't stop softly rubbing her cheek. "If you've got questions, Alistair, ask them."

"Um." Alistair's voice was rough. "Can I just…um."

"You can ask me later. Anything you want."

"Okay. Thanks."

Ancestors' favour, he hadn't been this slack-jawed when she'd given him his mother's amulet the evening before, liberated from the arl's study. Luckily for her, Bann Teagan seemed a little enamoured with his timely rescuer, and had been willing to help her search for the trinket.

Alistair had kissed her that evening outside Redcliffe Castle, with the amulet clutched tightly in his palm. It certainly wasn't a skilled kiss, but it was rather charming. The memory of his warm, dry lips on hers was still vivid, even if it had been very brief.

It was at this point, sitting close together in a softly lit tent with his hand on her face and her belly tingling in anticipation, that her boldness should have made things very clear. She knew what would happen next if she made a move towards him. He would give her the comfort she yearned for.

She knew he was inexperienced— he'd told her as much with his ridiculous talk of lampposts— and she had done this before. She'd been the aggressor there as well, since her treasured Gorim would never have approached his Lady Aeducan in such a way, regardless of his feelings. She wondered if her Second had courted his duster wife, as he'd never been allowed to court her.

She realised that her mind was trying to distract her, to keep her from dwelling on her current position. Perhaps she didn't want to pursue, for once.

Or perhaps she was just scared. She hated to admit it, but as much as she truly cared about her fellow warden, and as attracted as she was to him, she was also very nervous of starting something between them. She knew, in theory, how such an encounter would proceed, but she'd never… not with a _human_.

Did human and dwarven men even have the same parts? And if so, did size increase with stature? She'd heard stories about half-human children, raised on the surface of course, so perhaps it could be done without… unpleasantness.

She couldn't do this. Not then. Not when her emotions were running so high and so raw.

She turned her head slightly and pressed a kiss against his palm, ignoring his quiet gasp, and then ducked away from further touching. Freeing herself from the blankets for a moment, she reached over and pulled the shield out from under her pack. She'd refused to talk about it after Gorim had given it to her in Denerim a few weeks before, and eventually her companions had stopped asking about the mysterious shield she lugged about but never used. Even on this quest, travelling light, she couldn't bring herself to leave it behind.

"Here." She handed him the shield almost reverently. "It's old, but better quality than your templar shield. This is the relic my father sent me to find."

Alistair ran his thumb along one of the deeper claw marks. "How old, exactly?"

"Paragon Aeducan, the dwarf who founded my house, supposedly carried it. During the First Blight." When Alistair's grip went lax, she was ready and caught the shield before it hit the ground. She groaned. "In no way does that stunning display of skilfulness make me want to take this back."

"Oh Maker, I'm so sorry—"

"Just shut up and take the shield. Someone might as well get some use out of it." She waited for him to lift it carefully from her arms, then raised her brows. "I'm going to sleep, and unless you're volunteering to help keep me warm, you'd better be on your way."

She watched the blush burn across his cheeks with some measure of satisfaction, but she'd already made up her mind. Not then. She squirmed a bit under the blankets, then pulled out one empty boot and wiggled it in front of him.

"Getting naked now. Keep up, or get out." For a moment, she was half-terrified he was going to take her up on the offer. His eyes had gone dark, and there was a definite heat in his gaze. Then the moment was broken and he was scrambling back out into the night, her family's shield clutched to his chest.


	11. Of Dogs

It was her first full night sharing a bedroll with her new… _evening companion_. So, when a great hot huff of air blew across her neck and the pitiful whinging started in earnest, she could be forgiven for reaching down to scratch the great fuzzy belly that normally curled so close to her in sleep.

"Mmm s'nice…" She jerked awake, not expecting more of a response than a wet lick or maybe a contented grumble. Then she noticed that the belly under her hand was not quite so big or so fuzzy as usual.

She kept rubbing her fingers through the fuzz she had found, enjoying the pleased little murmurs her attentions were producing. Then the whinging that had roused her piped up again, outside the tent flap.

She sat up a little— just visible through the canvas wall, backlit by the fire, there was a great, hulking shadow. The shadow gently scratched against the tent, whimpering plaintively. She glanced around the dark interior, mentally measuring.

"Alistair." She scraped her blunt nails down his side, stretching up to talk against his ear. "Alistair, the dog wants in."

"Mphm. Mrrr." She couldn't help grinning against his shoulder.

"Of course, love." The dog scratched again, harder this time after having heard her voice. "But he's crying, and you're in his spot."

"Nuh-uh. I'm'n _my_ spot." The words were still very slurred, but at least they were actual words. "He was just… keeping it warm f'me."

"Sweet man." She kissed his chin, then slipped out of his arms.

"Heeeeeeey—" She glanced back at his pitiful form, still half asleep and grasping at air and empty blankets, as she untied the tent flap. The dog nuzzled her face enthusiastically, but quietly slipped inside when she shushed him. He flopped down against one side of the tent, leaving a sliver of bedroll between his back and Alistair's front. She sighed and squeezed in between her two boys. Alistair snuffled at her hair, gripping her tight against him.

"There," she murmured, shifting her hip a bit. "Everybody's happy."

The sun was just rising when she was awoken again, this time by a different kind of whinging.

"I'm squished." Alistair twisted his back, disturbing her further. "Who let that great lummox in here?"

"Mmm. The dog asked me the same thing." She tried to stretch, then stopped when her shoulder twinged sharply.

"Oh, you're funny." Sometime during the night, the dog had managed to push both his tent mates over into their own crowded corner, leaving more than enough room for him to splay out. "Can you wake him up?"

"I can try." Carefully, because he was a war hound after all, she reached out and stroked one massive shoulder. "Good morning, sleepy puppy. Who's my sweet boy?" The dog groaned, and his stub of a tail started thumping. "That's right, sleepy puppy. You're such a handsome boy. Why don't you go try and hunt down some breakfast, huh? I think someone might have left you a pot of leftover stew." She scratched his ears. "I'll be up in a little while. You be a good boy."

Groaning again, the dog rolled to his feet and crawled out of the tent without further discussion. With a few relieved sounds of his own, Alistair shifted them both back into the centre of the bedroll. Then, after a colossal stretch, he leaned in to kiss her neck.

"Good morning, sleep puppy," she said, gasping when his broad hand slid over her stomach.

"Good morning, my lady. Am I a good and handsome boy?"

"Definitely handsome. Good, I think, only if you don't stop." She tilted her head and caught his mouth in a warm, languid kiss. He returned it eagerly, then pulled away to pepper her jaw and throat with smaller pecks. She could feel his smile, and her stomach tingled with the thought that she'd unleashed a monster. A sexy, enthusiastic monster.

He kissed just below her ear. "I will strive to be good, then."


	12. Of Understanding

_AN: A little different format for this one. Viewpoint shifts, line breaks, all that jazz._

* * *

"Must you _always _do that?" Well, if the rest of their little party hadn't been listening before, they certainly were then.

"Do _not_ shout at me Alistair. I refuse to fight with you about this!" Weeks in the Deep Roads had them all worn thin, and whatever brief joy she'd experienced at finally giving Bhelen exactly what he deserved waned quickly. It was difficult to revel in the defeat of your enemies when said enemies were the last of your kin, when you still had a Blight to worry about, and oh yes, when your dearest love was being a _gigantic arse._

"Who's fighting? _I'm_ not fighting! I just asked you a question— must you always throw yourself into the _very middle_ of whatever horrors we run up against?"

"Alistair, stop—"

"No! Andraste's flaming sword, I almost had to watch you get torn apart by _giant bloody spiders_ because you rushed in after that emissary, knowing full well that you had a _mage_ and a _templar_ behind you. Two people perhaps _slightly_ better qualified to deal with magic than some foolhardy dwarf with a dagger and a death wish!"

"I will not be chastised like a child when you—"

"Then stop acting like one!"

* * *

On an average day, having been through only their standard amount of harrowing danger, Alistair might have realised they were both overwrought and stopped shouting before then. On an average day, a day not prefaced by weeks and weeks of dankness and death and miles of endless stone without the hope of sunlight, Alistair would have apologised for saying such an unkind thing, she would have apologised for not listening when he made a valid point, and everything would have been fine. This was not an average day.

"Fine." She threw their bundled tent down in the dirt between them and snarled something he didn't understand but that made Oghren spit out a great mouthful of ale. Then she stormed off towards Morrigan's tiny fire and sat there with the witch, back straight and chin up.

"Yeah, _fine!_" he yelled across what had become an otherwise silent campsite. "You're certainly not acting like a child _at all!_"

Two could play the sulking game, that was for damn sure. Giving their tent a hard kick where it lay abused, Alistair stalked to the opposite edge of camp and sat on a fallen log. She was being ridiculous, and petty, and why couldn't she ever just _listen_ to him?

* * *

"I told you he was an idiot from the very beginning, my friend." Morrigan flicked her finger, and shapes began dancing in the fire. "You can hardly be surprised."

"Yes, but he's my idiot." She sighed, watching the fascinating display Morrigan had created to cheer her up— a purpose she knew the witch would never admit to if pressed. "He's just so angry with me, I know he is, but he can't start treating me like a crystal vase just because we're…you know."

"Rutting?"

She shot the witch a glare. "In love."

Morrigan clicked her tongue and began to examine her fingernails absently. Then, after just enough time that it seemed she would have nothing more to say on the matter, she continued. Her voice was more serious than her preoccupied pose implied.

"Because you are my friend, I must speak plainly. I was not with you in that Thaig, and thus I do not know the truth of the matter for certain. From what I have heard, however, from Wynne, and the drunken dwarf, and yes, even Alistair, you did a very foolish thing."

"I'm _meant_ to battle darkspawn! I am a Grey Warden—" Finally, Morrigan turned to face her directly. Her golden eyes were very hard.

"I do not debate that, nor do I think you are a 'crystal vase.' I have told you before that I believe you to be a woman of remarkable strength and potential. What I do not believe, however, is that you are invincible. And neither should you."

She gritted her teeth. "I don't think I'm invincible. I think I have a duty."

"Yes, and an important one as well. So important in fact, that to so thoughtlessly risk leaving it to Alistair alone would be a grave mistake."

* * *

"What do you think they're talking about?" The dog tilted his head and grumbled. Alistair rubbed the great furry neck pressed up against him. "Yeah, I was afraid of that."

The dog had come to join him in his self-imposed exile rather than join its master, but after the poor mutt's last run in with Morrigan that was hardly surprising. In any event, Alistair was glad for the company. He felt like he had a great gaping hole in his chest, but somehow the warm slobbering all over his hand reminded him he wasn't quite dead yet.

"I know I'm right this time." The dog whimpered sadly. "No, I _am_ right. She's incredibly capable, I didn't forget that, but when it's six giant, poisonous spiders and a darkspawn mage against one of her, and I'm being held back by the bloody mass of genlocks she just blew past…"

He felt his stomach churn, remembering the terror of losing sight of her in that tangled mass of legs and fangs, of hearing her scream when that emissary sent a particularly nasty spell crackling around her like a cage, and he was _too far away_ and just couldn't push through stinking, blighted bodies fast enough.

"Maybe Leliana or Zevran could talk to her, rogue to rogue. Remind her that we have tactics for a reason. Remind her that she has many skills that make her invaluable, but being a battering ram is _not_ one of them." He wilted under the dog's long, silent look.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. I'm the one who needs to talk to her." Resting his elbows on his knees, Alistair cradled his chin in one hand. "I really shouldn't have shouted at her. That wasn't fair, having this argument in front of everyone."

The dog growled reproachfully, and Alistair couldn't help smiling a little. "You know, you're almost as good a listener as she is. But you're not as pretty."

* * *

"So what am I supposed to do then? Just hang back waiting for some great final battle? The Blight is happening now, and I'm fighting it. That's all I was doing."

"I despise that you force me to agree with the buffoon," Morrigan muttered, then continued with more force. "You are acting like a child. You made a serious blunder, likely due to your personal stress during our last mission, and now refuse to admit doing so. I am not sure what you mean to accomplish with such irrational denial."

Silently, taking a deep breath, she counted to ten. She reminded herself that Morrigan was new to this whole 'friend' thing. "Morrigan," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "I'm sorry I didn't explain this at the beginning: I just had a lovers' quarrel. You're meant to be telling me that Alistair's an idiot and doesn't deserve me. That's why I came over here. I _know_ I was stupid in the Thaig."

To her credit, Morrigan didn't attempt to hide her confused expression. "Do I not tell you such nearly every day? And then you bluster about, making excuses about how you _love_ him and all that sickening drivel."

"This is different." She dropped her head into her hands, wondering why she didn't just hunker down with Leliana. Someone who would know exactly how much complaining about Alistair she could take before she started defending him again, then forgiving him, then apologising to him. Leliana would have listened, and braided her hair.

"I do not understand."

Reaching out blindly, she patted the witch's knee. "I know. It's all right."

* * *

"I'm really starting to get nervous now. She's been over there with Morrigan for nearly an hour." The dog snuffled, roused from the doze he'd fallen into. Alistair glanced back quickly, trying to be clandestine. "And why hasn't anybody but you come to check on me? I'm wallowing in pain, and none of them cares?"

He shifted, sitting up a little straighter and feeling his neck twinge. The air was chilly and damp on this side of the Frostbacks, and he was sore from a day of hard travel. She'd been desperate to put as much distance as possible between them and Orzammar, despite their victory and Harrowmont's promise to restore her honour.

The others may have had questions about their abrupt departure from the warm dwarven city, but none of them voiced any. Nor were their any complaints about the hard, unforgiving hike out of the mountains. They'd all sensed Orzammar remained a difficult subject for their fearless leader.

"Maybe they decided we each get one shoulder to cry on. Fairness and all." He chuckled softly. "I got the sweet end of that deal, I think. I'd take you over Morrigan any day."

The dog whuffed, and Alistair jumped as Leliana melted out of the darkness.

"Or maybe," the bard said. "They just didn't want to get involved in what should have been a private argument between lovers. Mr. Shouty-britches."

Clutching his chest to keep his heart from escaping, Alistair sucked in a deep breath. "You are an evil, spectral woman. You're trying to scare me to death."

Leliana sat next to him. "Trying to scare some sense into you, perhaps. You need to go talk to her. Alone, and calmly." She sniffed delicately. "And when this has all blown over, and you are blissful once again, _I_ will talk to her about why callous, unpleasant witches should not be one's first choice for emotional support, even if the act of storming off to their lairs makes for a more dramatic exit."

* * *

"Is Leliana over there talking with him now?"

Morrigan groaned, not looking up from the tome she'd begun reading. "If you plan to continue hiding away at my fire while scrutinizing his every move, at least do so quietly."

"He's getting up, he's getting up— why is he getting up? What did she say to him?"

"I am not sure I could even attempt to care less."

"I think he's coming over here."

Morrigan slammed the book shut. "Very well; be gone. I will not become involved in some simpering, saccharine reunion."

"But—"

Morrigan's eyes were glowing dangerously. "_Go_."

She got up and hastily brushed off the seat of her leggings before loping over in the direction of camp. She was very aware that all of their campmates had apparently found fascinating things to occupy their respective attentions.

"I'm going to look for some more wood," she announced loudly, not looking at Alistair. There was a substantial pile of firewood stacked neatly nearby, but if Wynne was really going to read The Rose of Orlais upside down, and Zevran was really going to re-polish his newly shone boots, she could "look for more wood."

"I'll help." The tone of Alistair's voice was almost unreadable. It made her uneasy. "If that's acceptable, lady."

She nodded mutely, setting off out of camp without further discussion. They didn't speak for some time, until the forest that had closed around them opened again into a small glade.

There were still a few shafts of fading sunlight filtering in through the trees. Had the tension not been palatable, she would have made a comment about how romantic the setting would be, excepting her lingering apprehension in deep forests.

He'd walked behind her a step or two the whole way there, and now that they'd stopped she turned back to look at him. Before she could say a word, he was dropping to his knees on the mossy ground, and she was speechless. Suddenly and unexpectedly it had become very, very romantic.

* * *

He'd been thinking about this the entire walk. She didn't speak to him all the way from camp, had barely looked at him, and now here they were.

He'd counted on catching her off guard, so when she turned, he immediately knelt. She made a small sound that might have been the beginning of a word, but then was silent.

He looked into her face, now almost perfectly level with his own. He reached out, forcing himself not to hesitate, and touched her cheek. When she didn't even try to move away from him, he leaned a little closer and cupped her jaw with his hand. He cleared his throat softly.

"I was cruel, and I'm sorry. I told you before that you make me crazy, and I suppose it just got away from me this time." He pressed their foreheads together gently, sucking in a deep breath through his nose. "The thought of losing you tears my heart out."

"I was stupid." He felt her words brush across his lips. "I was… hurting."

"About your brother." She nodded, and then her face was buried in his neck. He stroked her hair soothingly. "I am so sorry, my love."

"I killed them all—" She was sobbing. "I can't be the only one left!"

He couldn't tell her everything would be all right. He couldn't tell her she wasn't alone. Her family was gone, and he couldn't change that.

He thought back to how tightly she'd gripped his wrist after they'd left Goldanna's house.

"Everything's going to be all right," he murmured, kissing her temple. "You're not alone. I'm here for you. We're in this together."

* * *

_AN: I wanted to take this opportunity to thank everybody who's reviewed this. You all are wonderful, and I'm glad you're enjoying. I'm certainly enjoying writing in this universe._

_Malkavianqueen: I hope you're enjoying your Dwarf Noble. I think she's got one of the most engaging origins in the game._

_kallmered: I'm glad you're enjoying the story, especially Alistair. I've put a list of the chapters ordered chronologically in my profile, if you're interested in seeing how they fit together in a sensible time frame._

_Thessali: Teagan is a pimp, in the best possible way. I think we established that when he started blatantly coming on to the Warden in the middle of a chantry while people cowered in fear of the undead. Total pimp. Love it._

_Kirwond: I appreciate the comments. The differences in background affecting the story is exactly why I think DA:O is so fantastic. Some of the in-game plot, conversations and reactions, for Dwarf Noble, Mage, etc, are just amazing. _

_Kangaroo-in-debt: I remember being a little ambivalent towards Leliana at first. Then she and my elf mage had a conversation that honestly shocked the hell out of me. That Leliana didn't realise her own preconceptions and bigotry was stunning, and well written. It changed how I looked at Leliana, and eventually made me like her a lot more. She's a really complex character, and underrated in a lot of ways. Also, at the time of writing Of Faith, I hadn't experienced being just friends with Leliana. I have now (she and my mage are BBFs), and she's just **hilarious** and **awesome**. Thank you very much for the review, and I'm glad you're enjoying this!_

_whirleeq: Your suggestions are **fantastic**__, and I've already sketched out some ideas for those scenes. I'll probably work on them over the holiday, plus the few other scenes that are sitting unfinished in my files. I agree about the Dwarf Noble and the City Elf-- I haven't gone farther than Ostagar with a City Elf character, but the origin was one of the most emotionally affecting things I've ever experienced in a video game. I was **furious**. As far as Dwarf Noble, you can probably guess I think it's a wonderful origin. Huge amount of depth, draws you in, and the reaction to your return to Orzammar later on is actually painful. _

_Oh, and open question I've been mulling: wouldn't the dwarven woman actually raised to become a queen (because you can't tell me a FemDwarf Noble, given her popularity and Orzammar's complex politics wasn't prepared for the possibility of being voted Queen), make an incredible Queen of Ferelden, in a perfect world where racism didn't exist and candy grew on trees? Yes, yes she would. Alistair would love it too. Damn you, Bioware, for making royal ascension in a backwater feudal kingdom so bloody realistic and not at all fantasy perfect. You are wonderful, and mean.  
_


	13. Of Gossip

She ducked inside the tent, still smiling about Shale's reaction to the chickens they'd brought back from the butcher in Denerim. Leliana was well on her way to creating what smelled like a delicious meal with them, and the poor golem was just visible standing over the crest of a nearby hill.

Her smile flickered a little wider when she saw Alistair, already half out of his mail. He was nearly down to shirtsleeves and trousers. "Why are you hiding in here? You missed Shale's tantrum—"

"I'm not speaking to you."

She blinked, brought up short by his irritated tone. "You just did though."

Alistair glared at her. "After this, no more. Not one more word."

She crawled over towards where he sat unfastening his boots and leaned back on her heels. "Will you at least tell me what's wrong?" Silence. He tossed one boot aside, then the other, and his socks soon followed.

She grabbed his bare foot, moving much quicker than he could hope to escape. She pressed both thumbs into a knot of tendons in the sole, biting back her triumphant grin when he moaned softly. She pressed again, beginning to ease some of the tension, then a sharp wiggle dislodged the foot from her grasp.

"Stop that." He crossed his legs, mostly tucking his feet under his knees.

"That was two more words."

Alistair's eyes narrowed. "I hate you."

She sighed and scooted over to sit right next to him, ignoring his squirming, and leaned her head against his arm. "Please just tell me what's wrong. I know you're not really angry."

"Why don't you go back and talk with Leliana if you're feeling chatty?"

"Is this about you nosing in on our conversation earlier?"

"I did _what? _Nosing about? When you two are giggling about us_…_" Alistair made a vague gesture, probably meant to convey something about having sex. It looked more like he was trying to swat flies. "What possesses you people to want to talk about these things _all the time?_ I mean really— did you know Zevran cornered me the other day and tried to give me _tips_? About _stamina_?"

"Zevran is just Zevran, but Leliana and I are girls, and girls talk about such things." She smiled sweetly. "She's become a good friend, now that we've established I'm not interested in visiting her tent to be slowly peeled and eaten like a ripe Orlesian orange."

Alistair's face turned the brightest red she'd ever seen. She kept smiling, looking up at him innocently. "You know, all sweet and juicy?"

"Yeah." His voice cracked like a boy's, and he cleared his throat. "Yeah. Orange. Got it."

She allowed him a moment of quiet reflection with that image, then continued. "So, did Zevran mention anything…interesting?"

Alistair's eyes snapped back into focus and his jaw clenched. His voice was still a little weak, though. "My stamina's fine, thanks. Unless you've got a different opinion."

"Oh, you're an animal. No complaints here." Her hand snaked around his back and she slipped her fingers under the waist of his trousers. She pinched and he shrieked, right before he rolled her on her back in one swift move.

"_Evil_ woman."


	14. Of Duty

_AN: Chapters 14 & 15 were inspired by whirleeq's suggestions_—_ thanks! Also, this is set quite early, just before Zevran's fated assassination attempt on our dear Wardens.  
_

* * *

"I wonder if anyone here sells quality armour— we've got a little extra coin, and your mail's seen better days."

Alistair shrugged, making the iron splints clank together. "It's got character."

She laughed. "It's got more dents than a genlock's head, and it's not even as attractive. It's not strong enough either, especially when we've got the money to buy better. We're being reckless for no reason."

"Your concern is touching, lady." He scanned the Market District carefully, all too aware that the guards had probably been warned about Grey Warden survivors. It was why he'd wanted to avoid Denerim, but she'd insisted they at least check things out before heading to Redcliffe. Their…adventures in the Circle Tower had eaten in to their supplies, and even Bodahn, their merchant shadow, was running low.

They each had been assigned a type of supply to procure. Wynne had already slipped off into the crowds to find an herbalist, and Leliana was chatting with nearby chantry sisters but would have to go look for foodstuff eventually. Sten and Morrigan had declined to enter the congested human city, and no one had argued. They'd left the mabari at camp as well, as he was a touch conspicuous as the pet of simple travellers.

Alistair was part of the weapons and armour team, which actually meant _she_ would be shopping and he'd be carrying. He really couldn't bring himself to mind, though, when she smiled at him like that.

They paid a visit to Wade's Emporium first, which was a little bizarre, but most of the stock had been too heavy or too expensive. They left empty-handed, but not before developing a bit of a rapport with the eccentric proprietors. He shook his head as they walked out; she could talk an archdemon out of a Blight. Maybe she'd even try.

They'd stopped at a stall run by two Antivans, it sounded like, and he half-listened as she talked about poisons and ichors and acid. She'd promised to teach him at least enough about the noxious stuff that he could use it on his blade without killing himself, but they hadn't gotten around to it yet.

Then she was busy haggling about the cost of lifestones with the trader, and he quickly started getting distracted. There were huge, fleshy rabbit things squealing from a nearby cage, and after getting a nod from the owner he petted one through the bars. It looked up at him with tiny, clear eyes.

He thought he might smell baking pies somewhere in the vicinity. Maybe they were mince pies, and maybe they had delicious, flaky crusts, and maybe they could go buy two for lunch. Or six.

He came back around the nug cage (that's what the dwarf who owned the stall said they were called, but that sounded like a joke at his expense. Who would call such an unfortunate looking animal a _nug_, of all things?), already crafting his argument about why mince pies were a fantastic idea, but she wasn't with the Antivans. She wasn't anywhere.

"Hey," he said to the balding one in the nicer reddish tunic. "Did you see where my friend went?"

"She ran off that way—" He pointed, then grinned in a rather disturbing way. "You really ought to keep a closer eye on your companion, Warden. These are dangerous times." Then he laughed, and if Alistair hadn't been a little desperate to track her down he would have insisted on knowing exactly what _that_ was supposed to mean.

He moved off in the direction the trader had indicated, searching the crowd. How in Andraste's name was he supposed to keep track of someone so quick and so small if she didn't have the common courtesy to wear a bell or something?

Surprisingly, he caught sight of her almost immediately. Well, perhaps not so surprising— she was the only fully armed dwarf currently legging it across the square. When she nearly tackled some dwarven merchant he started reaching for his sword, but when he saw the merchant's arms come up around her in an obvious embrace he stopped.

He shouldn't have been so surprised that she'd know a dwarf or two they met on the road. Duncan had recruited her direct from Orzammar, as far as he knew. She'd presumably know lots of other dwarves. He wondered if she'd kiss them too, the way she was currently kissing the merchant.

Wait, _what?_

Alistair couldn't help the lurching step forward he took, but then the merchant was gently extracting himself, saying something Alistair of course couldn't hear, and then she was looking rather embarrassed, stepping away and crossing her arms.

The merchant was touching her face, thick fingers caressing her jaw, and she was smiling again, a little sadly. What was going on?

He needed to breathe. He needed to unclench his fists. He needed to walk back around the corner and pretend he hadn't seen _anything_.

The rose had been a silly fancy— he didn't have a claim on her. Not at all, apparently.

Suddenly, like she knew he was there the whole time, like she could feel him watching, she turned her head and looked right at him. He panicked, glancing around for something to pretend he'd been doing. Nothing. Even the crowd had parted, leaving him standing alone, staring like a fool.

She looked indecisive, standing in front of the small market stall. The other dwarf was very clearly giving Alistair a once-over. It made him squirmy. Then she motioned for him to come over, and said something to the merchant that made the dwarf nod.

He had two choices: join her and the dwarf-who-had-just-been-kissed, or run for it. Neither option seemed particularly appealing, given the many possibilities for humiliation. Still, she was his companion, and sort of his leader.

He sighed, and steeled himself before striding over purposefully.

"Alistair," she said when he approached. She was _blushing_. "This is Gorim. He's an old friend."

_A kissing friend? A more-than-kissing friend? Was he__** coming with them?**_ Alistair cleared his throat. "Well met, Gorim."

"Atrast vala, Warden." And there it was. The awkwardness. This Gorim knew Alistair's… intentions. Alistair felt the back of his neck get sweaty.

"Gorim's father-in-law is a smith, Alistair." Father-in-law. That sounded promising, and explained the abrupt end to their reunion. Alistair didn't let himself grin— not even a little. "He's got some veridium splintmail and boots that he can give us a great deal on."

"Sounds good." It did sound good; it would be inappropriate _not_ to smile at such news. Alistair felt his mouth twitch. "Let's have a look."

It was later that evening, when they'd finally left Denerim for their camp, that the incident had come up again. He was standing near the fire, having just added two sizable logs, and was enjoying the way his new armour fit. He stretched his arms experimentally, noting the lack of clanking with no small amount of pleasure.

"It looks good on you," she said, and he made a show of flexing and growling comically. She laughed. "Yes, yes. Such a brawny specimen you are."

"Yet astonishingly pretty as well," he replied, brushing imaginary hair over one shoulder. Then he noticed she still had the large, round shield she'd gotten from Gorim. She was sitting cross-legged on a blanket, and the shield was propped up against her thigh. Her hand was absently tracing the intricate design on its face, still visible through some rather deep claw marks.

He considered asking about it, but when Leliana had mentioned it on the walk back she'd been shut down quickly. He allowed his eyes to linger on the thing, but said nothing. After a moment of quiet, she motioned for him to come sit next to her.

He did, dropping onto the other side of the blanket with a small groan. He'd tried to keep the distance between them respectable, but maybe a little closer than just friendly. She didn't seem to object— in fact, she leaned closer still. Her expression was thoughtful, though, and Alistair forced himself to pay attention.

"It was very good to see Gorim again." He deflated, just a bit. "I wasn't sure he was even still alive, truly. I hadn't seen him since I left Orzammar."

Alistair couldn't remember her ever talking about her life before the Grey Wardens. Due to the nature of their order, it was considered bad form to actually ask another warden about his or her past, and he'd never pried.

She smiled at him, but it was too pensive to be happy. "We've been friends since we were children— he's only two years older than me, you know."

Alistair stopped himself from commenting rather nastily on how much better dwarven women aged compared to the men. He just hummed an interested sound, encouraging her to continue.

She was staring into the fire now, rather than at him. The light from the flames did lovely things to her hair, making it glint copper and gold. "We… I loved him, once. Before I joined the Wardens." Her voice was soft and far away, and her words made jealousy flare in his gut. "He is the most loyal man I've ever known."

"Do you love him still?" If Alistair could have reversed time for a moment and cut out his own tongue before that little gem escaped, he would have. Before he could stammer out an apology, she was touching the back of his hand soothingly. He almost choked.

"I do," she said, and it felt rather like she'd punched him in the throat. "But he's married, and happy, and has no room in his life for me." Her fingers stroked over his gently. "And I've got no room in mine for him. Not anymore. You and I…"

Alistair's heart stopped beating. _You and I? _She sighed. "You and I have a duty that comes first. Defeating the Blight, together."

Somehow, _Blight_ wasn't the most important word in that sentence. _Together_ sounded too good.


	15. Of Rebirth

_AN: This was **fun**. Makes the assumption that the underwear in this scene were just as prudish as the underwear in the sexy cut scenes. Don't underwear count as "the trappings of worldly life?"_

* * *

He was in a temple. In a temple. A temple, a temple, a temple.

Not just any temple, either. The Temple of the Sacred Ashes. Seriously holy temple. Hugely holy. The Holiest.

Andraste's ashes were _right over there_. He was _in the same room_ as Andraste's remains.

Like Genitivi had said, if the Maker was going to watch anywhere, it would be _there_.

He Could Not. Get Excited. In This Temple.

But she was _doing it_. She'd read the inscription on the altar, said something he could barely remember about trappings, then she'd _started taking her clothes off_. How—what— she _couldn't—_

"Hurry up," she said over one shoulder, tossing her leather armour onto the pile of her discarded weapons and small pack. Then she started unlacing her leggings, and he had to avert his eyes. "We've got to get through this. All of you, down to your skins."

Morrigan made some snarky comment about repressed religions and sexuality, but when Alistair glanced over, she already had her top off. Big, witchy breasts. Nipples, even. He thought his head might explode, and wondered if they had a poultice strong enough for that.

"The templar is falling behind." Sten was such a _tattletale_. A tattletale without any trousers on, apparently. Qunari efficiency strikes again.

"Alistair—" He wasn't going to look at her, even though she was talking to him. It might be rude, but not nearly so rude as getting little bits of skull all over her lovely pale skin. A person couldn't blush this much without risking serious injury, he just knew it.

Then she stepped into his field of vision. He couldn't escape. She was all bare flesh and sweet curves he'd only been able to imagine, and They Were In A Temple.

He managed to swallow over the lump in his throat. A brief glance at the rest of the insanity confirmed he was the only one still dressed. He could have lived to the end of his days, perfectly happy at never having seen Sten's penis. Yet, there it was.

"Come on," she whispered, breaking him from his bizarre, nightmarish thoughts. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright— he knew this, because he wasn't looking anywhere but her face. "I've been waiting months to see you out of your kit."

He laughed, too loud and too hysteric. It echoed through the vast room. "Oh, you darling woman," he gasped through his weakening giggles. "You're making this worse."

Still, he managed to unbuckle and unlace every stitch of clothing with unsteady fingers. The mountain air was chilly, and he kept his hands very strategically placed. This was _mortifying_.

After an understandable hesitation at the edge of the wall of fire, she was the first one to stick her arm through. Her bum was round and very pert, and They Were In A _Temple_.

When there was a distinct lack of screaming or the smell of burnt flesh, they all stepped into the flames. Well, he shuffled as quickly as possible while covering his bits, but he still made it through.

Then the Guardian was there again, the flames vanished, and Alistair couldn't get his pants on fast enough.


	16. Of Reputation

"Do you ever miss sleeping in a real bed?"

She was sated, brain all gone to mud, and it took her a moment to comprehend the question. Then she turned her head, resting her chin on Alistair's chest. "My back does, some nights, but not so often since I got myself a new squishy mattress." She poked his belly and he swatted at her hand.

"A firm, well-defined mattress, and don't you forget it."

She chuckled, pressing a kiss against his skin. "All right, stop tensing up. You're firm and well-defined. Chiselled, even."

"Damn right I am." He was cradling her smaller body against himself with one arm, and he rucked her up a bit by the bottom. She hugged his chest tighter, noticing that he looked rather thoughtful.

"Something's on your mind."

"It's nothing, it's just… it's strange, is all." She waited. In their lives, lots of things could be strange, and those that could be probably were. This particular thing didn't sound especially ominous, by his tone. "I've never slept next to you in a real bed—I've never slept next to anyone in a real bed— but now, when my back is sore and I'm cursing hard, cold ground, I can't imagine sleeping soundly in a bed without you."

"Aww." Her brain was already mud, and now her chest was filling up with warm sand. "You are an adorable man."

He growled. "Don't let it get around. I don't want darkspawn thinking I'm a softie."

"Your secret's safe. The fiends will still be wetting themselves at the sound of your war cry, even if you do love to cuddle."

"I really _do_ love to cuddle." He groaned softly as he turned, flipping them over so she was on the bedroll and he was curled around her like a huge cat. She struggled briefly, freeing her face from being squished under his arm. The blankets were tangled beyond hope somewhere down by their legs.

She relaxed, trapped in his clutches. "Tell me, my darling Alistair— if we had a downy and spacious bed in some marvellous fortress all our own, would you still hold me so close while we slept?"

"Do you want the romantic answer, or the actual answer?"

"They're not the same?" She felt him press a kiss against the top of her head.

"Well, they're _basically_ the same, but the romantic answer is a bit more flowery."

"Give me that one, then." His chest expanded and released in a sigh.

"My dearest love, if I had a thousand beds, each more fluffy and decadent than the last, I would still choose to lay my head next to yours, whether on a feather pillow or a mossy stone. I am never more comfortable than when you're in my arms."

She couldn't help giggling a little. "All right, what was the actual answer?"

"I just would have said 'yep,' grabbed your bottom and gone to sleep. I am really tired after all the work I just did." She smacked his side lightly. "Hey, I'm not all kittens and rainbows. It would have been my manly answer."

She was fighting the silliness and the exhaustion in equal measures. "Right. Just bring the blankets back up here and we can both get some rest after your strenuous exertions."

"Yep," he replied, reaching down and pulling the wool and furs up over them both. Then he grabbed her bottom.


	17. Of Grain

She was grinning broadly and clapping her hand on her thigh as one very drunk, very loud dwarf belted out 'Three Mugs and a Nug'. Well, more gargled than belted out, but he was keeping the tune well. Ancestors' beards, she hadn't heard that song since…well, in a long, long time.

Alistair was there. She could see him, sitting too far away on the other side of the fire. He hadn't been there when she'd started drinking. She would have remembered that. He'd been gone, with…somebody. Doing…something.

He looked lonely, so she decided to join him. She didn't remember camping on a hill, but the ground definitely wasn't level on the way over.

She squatted down on the grass in front of Alistair. Ali-stair. He had such a pretty name. She would have to remember to tell him that, later. She waved. "Hello Alistair. Did you know Oghren made special ale? And it's _good _ale. You should have some ale."

She was sad that he still looked lonely, and then she remembered it was her job to make him not lonely. He made her warm, and she made him not lonely, and happy, and sweaty. She smiled and tried to slither up into his lap, but he blocked her way with one arm. She latched on to that and pulled.

"Alistair, what's wrong?" She resisted all attempts to shake her off. "I want cuddles."

"You should want to chew some mint or something."

"Huh?" He sighed, deeply and resignedly. He had a little wrinkled between his eyebrows that made her want to touch it. She tried, but he grabbed her wrist.

"Okay, no poking me in the eye. Thank you."

She pouted. "I wasn't. You've got a wrinkle, an' it's cute."

"Mmhm, great. You're giving me wrinkles now. Perfect."

He was being mean, and talking in his grumbly voice. She hated his grumbly voice. "You're no fun _at all_. Zev was right— you're _boring_."

"Later," he said, calmly. "You're going to remember saying that, and you're going to feel terrible." She stuck her tongue out, and Alistair sighed again. Then he raised his voice, loud enough to carry over Oghren's singing. "Excuse me! What is in that bloody ale, and how much did she have?"

"Grain!" Oghren belched deafeningly, then continued. "An' Oghren's special blend. Not telling you what's in _that_, blighter."

Using his minor distraction to her advantage, she slipped past his defences and wrapped her arms around his chest. Ha. "I wouldn'ta had so much, but Zev said I couldn't hold my liquor… something about me being little and such. I told him, I told him I'm _dwarva_, ser elf-man. We _invented_ drunk. Drink. Ale. I love you Alistair. You're pretty." Her fingers were touching his jaw, and the stubbly orange-y hair there was funny. It tickled. She wriggled up and pressed her nose against it.

"Thank you." When he talked, the lumpy thing in his throat moved. She watched it carefully. "Where, pray tell, is ser elf-man now?"

She giggled. "He passed out, while ago. But Oghren had more ale. Did you know Oghren made ale?"


	18. Of Discretion

He'd been having nightmares— of that much he was sure. Not a darkspawn or archdemon in sight, either. Just your standard bad dreams.

He was searching for something, something he'd lost, something vitally important. He could feel himself weakening, dying without this thing, but what was it? Why couldn't he find it?

Then, as happens in dreams, his search suddenly didn't seem so frantic anymore. Everything was going to work out. Everything was fine, and warm, and that felt very, very good…

The dream slowly gave way, but the warmth and the very good feelings remained. Alistair groaned, feeling the last tendrils of sleep slip away from his mind, but something didn't make sense. He was feeling awfully crowded for someone who'd gone to sleep alone, in a locked room.

He knew the body pressed up against him. He knew the hand running along his belly and down his thigh. He opened his eyes.

The room was dark, but he'd left the drapes open and the moonlight was bright enough to make out her face. She was smiling at him, so sweetly.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered, perhaps too agitatedly. He saw her smile falter.

"We've been staying at this estate for days," she whispered back, sounding a little defensive. "And you've barely looked at me, unless we're out in the city. I've missed you. I wanted you to hold me."

Well, now he felt like a heel— yet, still _very_ embarrassed to have her in his bed. Maker's breath, he was a grown man, not a naughty youth. What was wrong with him?

"I'm sorry," he said, still whispering but forcing the panic out of his voice. "This is just… strange. In the arl's estate and all. I've no idea how I'm supposed to act around you." Even here, in the dark of night, anxiety was keeping his hands firmly on the mattress and not on her.

She was apparently suffering under no such qualms, and he gasped when her fingers trailed high up his thigh and under his nightshirt.

"Alistair." Oh, that was not fair. That was her something-wonderful-is-about-to-happen, deliciously wicked voice. "I know you never had a chance to be an ordinary, rambunctious boy. Never had the chance to sneak a girl into your rooms—"

"How did you get in here, anyway?" He knew the answer— he'd seen her pick every conceivable kind of lock— but he was desperate to change the subject. Anything to distract him from that voice and those fingers.

Then she touched him _there_, and squeezed just like _that_, and he bit his fist. Hard.

They couldn't do this here. Alistair was fairly certain his room even shared a wall with the arl's study. What if Eamon was still up, though it was incredibly late… reading or something? What if he heard them?

She leaned in and trailed burning kisses up his neck. When she murmured against his ear, he shuddered. "You're going to give yourself fits, getting so anxious like this."

"_I_ was asleep! _I'm_ not giving myself anything of the sort!" He heard the shrillness that had crept into his quiet voice, and winced. She frowned, and removed her hand to the safer location of his chest. His heart was hammering, and he was certain she could feel it.

"I'll go," she said, and she sounded hurt. When she moved to slip out of the bed, he grabbed her hip gently. He realised, belatedly, that he could have just held her wrist.

Whatever she was wearing was unbelievably soft under his hand, and slightly cool to the touch. He swallowed thickly, unable to stop his fingers from clutching at the fabric and the cherished flesh underneath. She propped herself up, leaning on one hand, and peered down at him.

"Alistair?"

"Just…wait." He pulled the blankets down a little further, allowing the moonlight to illuminate her form. His eyes followed the thin ribbons arching over her shoulders, the way the silky fabric of the nightdress clung tightly to her breasts then draped away in gauzy pleats, the sheer _womanliness_ of the whole thing. "Oh, mercy—"

"It doesn't really fit," she said, and it took a moment for her words to register. He was staring, and he couldn't stop. "I think it's supposed to be a child's nightdress. The bosom is…not roomy."

Truly, she was nearly spilling out of the otherwise modestly scooped neckline. The fabric pushed and squished and lifted things it was never sewn to cover, things it was barely covering _now_—

"It looks uncomfortable." His voice was gravely, and he could feel her questioning, penetrating gaze. The room had suddenly gotten very, very warm.

"I would have just worn one of your old shirts, if you hadn't been hiding away." Somehow, astoundingly, that image was even more erotic. He was utterly vanquished.

"I'm a fool," he said, and suddenly his hand was on her skin, fingers stroking along the bare flesh of her shoulder and sliding up under the gossamer hem of her skirt. Gripping the back of her thigh, he drew her towards him as he sat up. She allowed it, and with a sneaky, wicked smile she moved even closer until she was straddling his stomach.

"You're sometimes foolish," she corrected, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck as she shifted her hips temptingly. "But you're always willing to learn from your mistakes."

"Oh teach me, lady. I beg you." She kissed the tip of his nose.

"All right, but only if you're quiet."


	19. Of Fear

This was just madness.

What good would the sodding Dalish be against a darkspawn horde if they were felled by a pack of wolves anyway? This was probably just a waste of time— time that could be much better spent not traipsing through some horrific, creepy forest.

She took a deep breath, trying to collect herself. She was letting the trees and the quiet and the strange smells get to her. This was just a forest. They'd travelled through forests many times before.

A twig snapped behind her and she shrieked, simultaneously unsheathing her dagger and clapping her hand over her mouth. Alistair held his own hands up as if in surrender.

"Peace, my love. It's only me." She felt like a master smith was forging in her chest. Her throat was burning with bile, and her heart was pounding. With obvious care not to move too quickly, he came and sat beside her on some deadfall, wrapping one arm around her soothingly. Forgetting any semblance of pride, she clung to him.

"This is a horrible place," she mumbled, her cheek pressed against the cold metal of his mail. "My people were not meant to come here— I can feel it. Even Oghren knew enough to stay behind, and he was half in the bag when we left the Dalish."

"It does feel strange…" Alistair stroked her hair, which was already crunchy with drying wolf blood. "A bit like the Circle Tower, maybe. Perhaps that storyteller was right."

She snorted scornfully, trying to remember that this wasn't Alistair's fault. "By all my Ancestors' beards, I tire of your blasted Fade. How do you tall folk get any sleep at all if this kind of misery waits for you?"

"We have good dreams too." He squeezed her waist. "I used to dream about _you_ an embarrassing amount, for instance. Those were usually very good dreams."

She recognised that his voice had gone playful and a bit husky, and on a normal day she would have flirted right back. Here though, in these sinister woods, she didn't really have the heart for it. She patted his breastplate.

"And now that you have me, you dream of cheese. You talk in your sleep when you're not snoring."

He gasped, mock-affronted. "Slander and lies, my cruel lady. At most, I snuffle— I do _not_ snore."

"Mmhm." She took another deep, steadying breath before sitting up and pulling herself together. "I'll remember that next time the tent walls are shaking."

She was fine. She was _fine_. She'd grown up next to the deepest, darkest of monster filled abysses. She'd faced down all manner of terrible things during her time as a Grey Warden. She would not let some rotten, blighted forest best her.

Then Zevran melted out of the nearby foliage, and she shrieked again.


	20. Of Expectations

It had taken nearly a month of hard travel to make it out of the Deep Roads and across these vast, frigid, sodding _damp_ human lands to where Duncan had explained they were to make their stand against the darkspawn. Ostagar, some old Tevinter ruin, and the first thing she thought when it appeared over the horizon was: _Thank the Ancestors, some stone for under my feet._

When she'd stumbled out of that blighted tunnel, she'd been bloody and barefoot. Now she was air-touched and interminably queasy. There had been mornings during their travel when she'd woken up, shivering in her bedroll and blinking up at the immeasurable emptiness of the brightening sky, that she wondered which fate was worse. Here she might have the freedom to live, but there was no Stone to catch her if she fell.

Duncan had made her feel welcome, despite knowing at least a little of what her exile in the Deep Roads might mean. She got the sense that of all the Wardens in their party, Duncan was the only one who truly understood. Yet he still spoke with her, told her some stories of the Wardens and his life with them, and was eager to hear her own stories of Orzammar and darkspawn. He was the only one she spoke to of such things.

He'd even bought her a pair of boots from a dwarf merchant they encountered on their way out of the Frostbacks. None of their human shoes would fit her properly— they were either too large or too narrow— so she'd been trudging and tripping her way through the snow with a pair of borrowed boots stuffed with several pairs of socks. It did not help that she was travelling with the tall races either, as she found herself forced to take at least two steps for every one of theirs. The new boots were a practical purchase, of course, but she appreciated it all the same.

She was nothing. She had no House, no name, and no place in the only home she'd ever known. She wasn't even in the Memories any longer. It ached, deep within her chest, and she felt hollow. She was a stone with no foundation and no core— she was little more than dust, waiting for a stray breeze to blow away all that remained.

She huffed and yanked her pack higher on her back. The ruins, for all their promise of familiar stone, were surrounded by dark, foreboding forest. Duncan reached out and offered her a hand up to the crest the hill they'd just climbed, and with the last shred of pride she had left, she considered ignoring him. Then, with a self-deprecating sigh, she grabbed his forearm and allowed him to pull her up the last few steps. Somehow the excess of air made it harder for her to strain herself; she felt light-headed often, although she could still easily keep up with the humans. She simply could not outpace them as easily as she'd hoped. Not yet, anyway.

"That is where we will make our stand," Duncan said, pointing at the ruin now clearly visible. She studied it carefully from their current distance, noting the defences its position could offer, and its obvious flaws. Then she took a deep breath.

"This place stinks of darkspawn." She kept her voice quiet so as not to purposefully alarm the other Wardens. Duncan shot her a somewhat surprised look.

"The bulk of the horde is deep in the Wilds, but there have been scouting bands reported approaching Ostagar itself. You can… smell them?"

"You mean over the stink of mould and garbage that seems to permeate this abysmal surface world?" She said it with a teasing grin to soften the insult, and Duncan chuckled. "They smell of putrid flesh and sulphur— just like the Deep Roads. It's very faint here, but it reminds me of home."

"One further reason we should recruit more Grey Wardens from the Dwarva." He clasped her shoulder briefly, then motioned for them all to move out.

She respected this human. He was a firm, very pragmatic commander, yet she had never seen him be unnecessarily cruel. He was the kind of leader she would have strived to be, had her military command lasted longer than a day.

It had been her intention to abandon the humans at the earliest opportunity, make her way to the city of Denerim and wait for Gorim. She had no honour left below ground anyway, and she cared as much for surface honour as she did for nug shit. Now though, now she had decided to stay and make a stand against the darkspawn with these Grey Wardens.

She remained Aeducan, regardless of what the Shaperate might say, and she would not shirk her duties— even duties forced upon her and expected by humans. She would slaughter enough darkspawn to make even her Paragon gaze up through the Stone and look upon her.

They would drive the monsters back into her homeland, a place where she would be more unwelcome than a pack of genlocks. Then, once the battle was over, she would leave. She would find Gorim, and they would make a life together in this wide-open world.

She remembered how he held her through her prison bars— how tightly she'd clung to him as she let herself sob silently into his mouth. Then he'd wiped her face quickly, fingers gentle over her skin. He touched her as if she'd shatter, and his eyes had been damp when he turned and left her there.

If the remaining Dwarva could hold their two cities through centuries of the darkspawn menace, an entire human army should be able to rout them here. Humans bred like cave ticks, so they should have quite a sizeable force assembled. An entire king's army, Duncan had said.

Her boots crunched in the small pebbles along the road, and she smiled slightly. Somehow, even knowing of the monsters that lurked before her, hungry for her blood, her breath came easier. The ground felt more solid under her feet.

* * *

_AN: Hi there. I just wanted to take a minute and thank you all for reading, especially those who review as well. You're fabulous, all of you. Also, because I'm just shameless, I'm going to mention that there's a quasi-companion piece to "Of Steel and Stone" floating around called "Reconstruct." It's post-game Aeducan/Alistair/Zevran and even though it was meant to be a one-shot, I've started working on a rather steamy follow-up. After that, I might even continue it as a serious story with politics and such, but we'll see. There will at least be sex, I promise._

_I'm also officially asking for ideas for future chapters in "Of Steel and Stone." If you've got a scene or concept you've thought of and would like me to try my hand at, I'd be very excited. Thanks! _


	21. Of Risk

The part of her that had not gone soft in the open air, the part that was still as hard as the Stone that made her, was screaming its displeasure. She was risking _everything_, everything they'd fought for and everything they could hope to gain there, all because the idea of sacrificing an innocent person was just too much to take. Not after all this death. Not after Alistair had looked at her with such desperation.

Alistair. _That_ was why she found herself doubting this decision, even though she hardly relished the other options. Alistair— the funny, handsome human man who gave her a flower and sped her heartbeat and confused her purpose.

She ignored Lady Isolde's quiet sobbing, choosing instead to explain her plan to Bann Teagan. The man's face was ashen and sweaty, and he leaned heavily against a chair as they spoke. She felt a fresh twinge of guilt, knowing many of his current injuries came at the ends of her own blades.

"I'm leaving for the Circle Tower at once. Will you be all right here with your remaining men?"

Teagan smiled grimly, more a gritting of teeth than anything. "We've barred the doors to the family quarters, where Connor has retreated. There is little else we can do but wait, and pray the demon has no way of affecting us from there."

She frowned, reaching out to gently cradle his elbow. His whole body was trembling. "Will you please sit down? With the demon's influence it will take a bit of time for Wynne's healing magic to take full effect, and your suffering is making my heart ache."

Carefully, slowly, he allowed her to help him lower himself onto the chair with a pained groan. He gripped her smaller hand with his. "Your concern is… most kind, my lady. You are truly a remarkable blessing in these evil times."

What was it with these human men? She'd been something of a beauty in Orzammar, but here among the tall folk? She had thought she'd be seen as some dumpy little troll; most of them certainly looked strangely proportioned to her. Yet, here they were, lining up to call her beautiful and give her soft, meaningful looks.

At least Zevran's apparent infatuation with her could be explained— he'd likely go after anything with a pulse if he sensed any encouragement whatsoever.

She pressed Teagan's fingers in a comforting way; it was a move she hoped wouldn't be misconstrued. By the glitter in his tired eyes, though, she thought it might have been. "I'm leaving one of my companions behind to monitor the situation, and lend you aid should you need it. I'll also leave my marbari here— he'll protect you and Isolde to the death, should anything happen."

"You are an incredible woman," Teagan murmured, then brushed a very chaste kiss against her knuckles. "I cannot express my thanks adequately for all you've done. For what you _are_ doing to save my family."

She extracted her hand from his grasp with as much politeness as she could manage, noticing that both Alistair and Zevran were circumspectly watching the exchange from the other side of the hall.

She really didn't have time for that kind of fuss.

"Morrigan," she called. "May we speak?"

The witch had been standing off on her own, glowering at anyone who gave her a second look. It seemed she was a particular fascination to some of the arl's knights, though whether that was because of her flimsy clothing or mysterious, apostate nature was unclear. She glanced up at the sound of her name, then strode over.

"You have need of me?" She didn't spare Teagan even a momentary acknowledgement. "I tire of these slavering, sanctimonious knights. They've no idea if they wish to slay me or bed me."

She spoke as if Morrigan hadn't, unwilling to waste any more time. "I'd like you to stay here while the rest of us go to the Tower. I need you to keep an eye on the situation."

Morrigan crossed her arms. "And what precisely am I meant to _keep an eye _on? We stand in the midst of a castle littered with dismembered corpses, and a powerful abomination lurks the corridors above us. To borrow a Chasind expression: the bear has already broken the snare."

"Please, Morrigan. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think this was vitally important, and if I didn't trust both your abilities and judgment." She knew how to play to the other woman's vanity, but it was also true to a degree. She knew Morrigan was powerful, though she was perhaps overstating the faith she'd put in her judgement. The situation was forcing her hand.

Morrigan sighed dramatically, but was obviously pleased enough to do as she was bid. "Very well. What is it you would ask of me, precisely?"

"Monitor Connor. If the demon makes a move while we're gone, something dangerous enough to seriously threaten those remaining in the castle, I need you to let Bann Teagan know. You must all be prepared to take the boy down should the worst occur."

"Fine, but leave the qunari here with me as well." That was unexpected. She studied Morrigan's apparently bored expression, searching for any hint of deceit.

"Why?"

"Because he is a formidable warrior, and the demon will not go quietly should we be forced to confront it. I will not trust my life solely to the incompetence of men who were bested by a pack of shuffling carcasses."

The idea of leaving Morrigan and Sten in charge of a little boy's life somehow did not seem like a prudent idea. She decided to voice her concerns bluntly, and damn the consequences. "How can I trust that you'll not simply kill Connor the moment I leave? I'm not sure Sten would object."

Morrigan chuckled darkly. "I do not relish the thought of facing such a demon on my own, even with Sten by my side. I would much rather leave this foolish fight to you."

She didn't have time to argue— they had no mounts, and there was no telling how long the demon would remain passive. She nodded sharply, then turned her attention back to Teagan.

"We must leave, now." The bann attempted to stand, but she placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Please, Bann Teagan. Rest as much as you can. I will return as soon as I can."

He bowed his head at her, his voice thick with emotion. "May you go with the Maker's own grace, my dear lady. And… your ancestors' favour?"

She couldn't stop the shy little smile that crinkled her mouth. "Thank you, my lord. The Stone keep you strong."

She loped over and explained the plan to Sten, speaking in clipped tones. She made it very clear exactly what was expected of the qunari, and he seemed to respect the resolve of her orders. Then it was time to go.

At Wynne's suggestion, Morrigan erected a barrier across the entrance to the castle's family quarters. It was not as powerful as the one Wynne had created in the Circle Tower, but it was not exactly meant to keep Connor confined. Its purpose had been refined, and would alert the witch if the demon's influence began to creep into the rest of the castle. It was also a much less draining spell, which was for the best.

They were making good time along the shores of Lake Calenhad, with Zevran taking point, Alistair hanging back just a bit to watch the rear, and she and Wynne hiking along at a pace. She'd worried about Wynne keeping up, but the older woman seemed to draw on some inner strength and her steps did not falter.

Alistair had been in quite an unpleasant mood since they'd left Redcliffe, which was perversely amusing given that his insistence had been a major factor in undertaking this entire mission. Finally, after they'd been travelling hard for the majority of the afternoon and evening, she called for a short break. They broke out some rations, and sat for a few moments to refortify.

She watched as Alistair tore into a piece of salt beef with a viciousness that matched his stormy expression. He hadn't said a word to her in hours, but she had heard him muttering about some kind of cards, and maybe something about an anvil, of all things. She really wasn't sure she wanted to ask where that had come from, but she also didn't want to have a broody templar distracting her.

She shuffled across the grassy hill they'd stopped on, scooting over to sit beside Alistair as he sulked. He kept chewing his beef as if she wasn't there.

She considered her options. Men were delicate creatures when it came to pride, and she'd learned that was just as true for human men as for dwarva.

"I really don't like Isolde." There, that got his attention. She met Alistair's startled expression blandly, as if nothing was amiss. "Do you think I could strangle her and blame it on the demon? Would Arl Eamon mind?"

He stared at her in stunned silence, brows furrowed. Then, slowly, his stiff posture sagged. "Maybe not after this debacle— hiring a murderous malificar and all. That could sour him a bit." His voice was quiet, but at least he was speaking. She knew she'd only started to chip away at his foul temper. With no small amount of daring, she slid closer, pressing her shoulder against his arm. When he didn't shy away she spoke, keeping her own voice low and serious.

"I'm not sure how to let Bann Teagan know that I'm not interested in his advances, flattering as they may be. You know him better than I— how should I broach the topic? I mean, he's been through so much in the past days, and he may still lose his family. I feel for him, and I've no wish to hurt him unduly."

It was a legitimate concern, not merely concocted for Alistair's benefit. She felt some measure of attraction for the charismatic bann, but she knew it was a passing fancy. She could hardly entertain fantasies of becoming the wife of a human noble, anyway, not with the taint in her blood, and she'd had a burning need to avoid politics as much as possible ever since she'd heard Bhelen's laugh while the brand was inked into her face.

She dared a glance up at Alistair, for she'd made sure to be staring at her own boots while she asked the question. He had a strange look in his eyes, and his cheeks had a faint pinkness under the thickening stubble. He seemed relieved at least, if somewhat suspicious.

"You're not… interested in Teagan? I mean, he's a rather handsome man, and he's well respected. He's, well, a fine catch, as I understand it."

"Someone else can catch him." She shrugged. "I'm not hunting."

"Fishing," he said, seemingly apropos of nothing, and she frowned at him.

"Pardon?"

He chuckled a little, and even though it was still dampened, she felt a little of the immense weight on her back fall away. "It'd been fishing, I think, not hunting. You know, it's a 'there's other fish in the sea,' 'going to get my hooks in that one' kind of thing. Fishing metaphors."

She restrained herself from asking what he was blathering about, focusing instead on the part she understood. "I've never seen the sea, except the docks in Denerim."

"You've what?" Now she was distracting him, getting his mind back into its normal, rather cheerful place. He was getting animated now, a welcome change from his recent gloom. "Oh, my lady, you must see the real thing! It's incredible and so beautiful— nothing like a lake, although lakes can have their charms. The sea, though, it's just…endless. Blue-green, stretching out to the horizon, and Maker, when the sun's setting over the waves it's just…" He was really smiling now, and perhaps flushed a shade or two darker as well. "I've always wanted to live by the sea. A little house overlooking a patch of shoreline… everything seems less dire when you can look out at the sea."

"That sounds lovely," she murmured sweetly, trying to encourage his shift in mood to stick. She noticed when he suddenly held his breath, then his arms shifted out behind him. He was leaning back on his palms, a seemingly innocent move, but now she was faced with a choice. She shifted a little closer, tucking herself just slightly under the crook of his shoulder. She felt him start breathing again, and his arm pressed against her back.

"Your eyes are the colour of the Waking Sea." He'd said it so quietly, she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. His gaze was flickering between his own knees and the grass beside her feet. "And sometimes… sometimes when I look at you, I think… maybe, they might actually be endless—"

"Are we cuddling now?" Zevran's voice cut through the hushed and rather tender atmosphere like a knife. A snarky, shrewd knife. "Oh, how utterly precious you Wardens are— it lights such a _fire_ in me. May I join?"

"My fist could join your face," Alistair muttered crossly. "Maybe my sword could join your gut. _Arse_hole." And the moment was gone. She rose to her feet with a dark glare for the assassin, but Zevran merely smirked at her, seemingly unaffected.

"Come on," she said, too loudly. "We've got to keep moving."


	22. Of Risk Redux

_AN: This is the first of my Redux chapters. These are scenes that didn't happen in the "Of Steel and Stone" universe, but could have, if different decisions had been made. _

_I've got a few more of these in mind; they'll probably tend to have more angst than normal._

* * *

Her head was pounding, and she felt every pair of eyes resting on her like boulders on her back. The weight of what she had to decide here, the truly horrific options laid out before her, made her stomach roll.

She pressed her palm hard against her face, turning away from them all— away from the humans who stared and sobbed and expected _her_ to be the final voice in this.

"I need a moment," she said quietly, immensely proud her voice remained steady. "I need to consider this."

Not waiting for a response, she stalked over to the far end of the hall, desperate for a moment to clear her head. The air in this place made her ill, made her dizzy. She knew the others could not feel it as she did— the boy, Connor, felt like a gaping hole in the world.

She almost howled when footsteps approached her hunched back. Alistair cleared his throat, but she didn't turn to face him. She couldn't.

"We're not really considering this, are we?" She clenched her fists at the sound of his controlled, angry tone. "We could be on our way to the Tower right now."

She leaned one arm against the stone wall, taking the barest solace and strength from the feel of it against her skin. "Are we to leave these people here, with that demon upstairs? A demon powerful enough to kill nearly every person in this castle once before? Is that truly what you want me to do?"

"We have to try—" She slapped her hand against the wall sharply. When she spoke, her voice was as cold and hard as her heart felt.

"Five days, at the very least, to reach the Circle Tower and return. Five days, with these people as defenceless as they were when we arrived."

"_Look_ at me, for the Maker's sake!" She turned, leaning back against the stone like she was on the edge of a precipice. Perhaps she was. His expression was twisted into something enraged and tempestuous, but deep in his eyes he was pleading with her.

"You said it yourself—" Her throat felt raw, as if she'd been screaming for hours. "The boy is an abomination. Why does he warrant our clemency when we simply hacked our way through those vicious monsters in the Tower?"

"They were blood mages!" Alistair might have been shouting, but she refused to raise her voice.

"Not all of them. Not the ones Uldred had trapped in the Harrowing chamber. Yet we killed them all the same. Those mages were innocent. Connor made a deal with this demon.

"We cannot let the blood mage attempt his ritual. You know we _cannot_ give him access to that kind of power. We are left with only two options."

She stared at him, and some small, weeping part of her was begging him to just _do_ something— _insist_ they make some foolish, dangerous journey to seek help from a broken Circle, who likely didn't have enough remaining resources anyway.

He said nothing, and she sensed the yawning fissure snaking beneath her feet with a clawing kind of dread.

"Alistair—" She needed to say his name. She needed to remember that he was her companion in this, her shield, and she was not so desperately alone as she felt. "I understand so very little of magic. If you tell me, now, that we should leave Eamon and Teagan and everyone else here at the mercy of that demon, I will go to the Tower. As a Grey Warden, and as a templar, look me in the eye and tell me we should risk all of this to save one single boy."

It wasn't fair, what she'd just done, but it also wasn't fair that this had all fallen to her. Bile was hot and bitter on the back of her tongue.

Alistair's gaped at her, fury ripping across his face. She thought, for a heartbeat, that he might try and hit her. Then he cried out wrathfully, desperately, and reached up to grip his own hair.

"Fine. _Fine_." His hands fell limply to his sides; he was a model of utterly heart wrenching defeat. "But I will not do it."

"Of course."

_Of course you'd leave me to this. Of course you wouldn't make this any easier. Of course you wouldn't see that I __**need**__ you, now more than ever before._

Painfully, as if she'd lived a hundred lifetimes in a single instant, she lurched away from the wall and back over to meet the silent assembly. Alistair didn't offer her an arm to lean on, or even a look.

She sighed, deeply and from her very core. She met Isolde's red-rimmed, hopeless gaze and just as it all welled into something completely horrific and untenable, everything went numb. She was as a stone.

"I'm sorry," she said flatly, and vaguely remembered a moment before when she would have meant it. "But I know what we must do."


	23. Of Fantasies

This has been a Very Good Day. Considering how rare such days were on their current quest, fighting darkspawn and dirty politics alike, it felt only right to acknowledge one when it occurred.

That was the main reason she'd agreed to spend one more night in this blighted forest, even on the outskirts. Her companions deserved a rest, and recognition of the great deeds they'd accomplished. If she was being completely honest, she deserved a rest as well, and those seemed fine motivations to accept the Dalish's hospitality for an evening of revelry.

The mood in the elven camp was mixed. They'd lost their keeper, but cured their families. They no longer had anything to fear from the werewolves, but the idea that the beasts that had killed their kin still lived, without suffering vengeful retribution, did not sit well with some. They mourned their dead, and celebrated the salvation of their clan.

It made for quite the party, really.

She was sitting by one of the large campfires, surreptitiously watching Wynne while the assorted revels clamoured around them. Oghren's voice carried quite far, especially when he was swigging elven spirits and singing some of his bawdier songs.

Wynne was sitting alone, facing the deeper forest they'd so recently left. The firelight glittered off something in her hands— the amulet she'd received from Aneirin.

It felt good to be able to do something like that for Wynne. The kindly mage was indispensable in keeping them all safe during combat, and Alistair especially had warmed to her. After the incident with his sister, it made her heart feel a little lighter that he could find other people to love him like family.

Despite her past, she had not been so embittered that she'd forgotten the importance of family.

Speaking of Alistair, she was beginning to wonder where he'd gotten off to. She'd thought that the idea of leaving her alone in a camp full of handsome and appreciative elven men would have raised his possessive streak. Sparring another glance at the contemplative Wynne, she pulled herself to her feet and slunk off to find her dearest love.

She was slipping silently through the shadows, trying not to be spotted by any elves who might want to thank her, question her, or otherwise hinder her mission. She managed to remain largely unnoticed, except by the owner of a too familiar pair of hands that grabbed her by the waist and yanked her behind one of the aravels.

The wall of the landship blocked firelight from illuminating her captor, but she knew the smell of him, like leather and some kind of spice she had never tasted.

No. No tasting.

She kept her voice to a low hiss, which might have been a mistake. If she'd screamed, he might have relented— or perhaps it just would have encouraged him. "Zevran, let me free! You lecher, you're lucky I didn't slide my knife in your belly."

She felt the heat of him pressed up against her back, and the sweetness of his breath against her neck. His hands were firm on her hips. "I prefer _rake_ if you're into name-calling. Or perhaps _lover_— that would be quite agreeable as well."

She wriggled, but then his hands slithered around to her belly, one resting low but still relatively chastely, and the other rising perilously close to the curve of her breast. His lips were brushing her ear.

"I just wanted to thank you again," he murmured. "For the gloves. It was… very thoughtful."

She sighed, relaxing her tense posture, and felt his pleased smirk against the side of her throat. Then she laid her hands over his. "You're welcome, my dear friend. I'm glad you like them."

There was a moment of complete stillness, but then Zevran sagged slightly, defeated by her sincere mention of friendship. His hands slipped out from under hers as he stepped away.

Any feelings of disappointment lingering in the far corners of her mind were squashed firmly. She cared for Zevran a great deal, but she loved Alistair with every good part of herself.

She knew she shouldn't, but she reached out and gently touched the bare skin of his bicep. She hoped her comfort was kind and not cruel, but she couldn't see his face in the shadow. Without another word, she darted back out into the camp to continue her search.

When she found Alistair, leaning against a broken pillar and watching the activities at a nearby bonfire closely, she felt her ire rise. He was doing it _again_. She snuck up behind him and swatted his rear sharply.

"Ow! Hey!" Surprise gave way to embarrassment at being caught, and Alistair ducked his head apologetically. "I'm not _doing_ anything. Just… looking."

She glowered up at him. "I believed you before when you said you were thinking of me. I believed you when you said it was the thought of _me_ in such a… garment that turned your head, and not firm elven bellies and long tanned legs. I believed you Alistair, Ancestors help me."

"It's _true!_" He dropped to one knee, hands out. "My love, I see only you."

"Mmhm. You see me in impractical scraps of leather that would barely cover my breasts and have my bare thighs swishing about for the pleasure of all and sundry." She ignored that his eyes had gone rather wide and dark as she spoke. He licked his lips, and she considered cuffing him upside his head. "You can see me completely naked almost every night, yet you're enthralled by the idea of me squeezing my squat little form into something like that."

"You're not squat." Suddenly, without any warning at all, she was the one on the receiving end of an angry glare. "You're gorgeous and voluptuous, and the absolute perfect size."

She wasn't about to let this conversation get turned around, even if he'd just succeeded in banishing some of her lingering self-doubt and making her stomach flutter a little. She crossed her arms. "And elves are lithe and slender— not at all my voluptuous, perfect size. The armour won't fit me, Alistair."

"That's why I have to _imagine_ it, dear lady. And it wouldn't be for the pleasure of all and sundry, just… for me." His mouth crooked in a small wiry smile, and her frustration was finally broken, abandoned in favour of affectionate indulgence. She mock-slapped his cheek, gently, then carded her fingers into his hair when he leaned in for a tender kiss.

Before they left the Dalish camp the next morning, she made a furtive visit to Master Varathorn. He'd been a bit surprised at her request, but had been able to find something close to what she needed. Then, after a rather scandalous conversation with Leliana back at their own camp (because Wynne might be better at sewing than the bard, but explaining why she wanted this done would be just too embarrassing to even contemplate), she had only to wait.

It took Leliana three days to finish the alterations, and a half dozen or so rather undignified, clandestine fittings. By the second time she'd crammed herself into the blighted thing, she was ready to abandon the entire ridiculous notion.

Leliana had tutted and tugged and taken a few more measurements, convincing her that it was a work in progress and don't be so _negative_. This was such a sweet, _naughty_ idea, and if she wasn't careful she might make Alistair's heart give out. Bleh.

Then it was done, and she was forced to admit that the finished product was much better than she'd imagined. Leliana had managed to work wonders with the supplies she'd been given.

So, that's how she found herself reclining in their tent, trying to look sultry but feeling more than a little silly. She was leaning on one hand, her legs stretched out to the side, and was trying to elongate herself enough that her bare middle didn't look as thick as she thought. The leather skirt draped just over the top half of her thighs, the slits high enough to be surprisingly revealing.

The top of the armour (and she used that term very loosely— it utterly escaped her why Dalish women would willingly engage in combat with such huge swaths of naked, unprotected skin) had been let out a bit, just like the hips, and now it didn't smush her chest in as it had before. What it did instead was lift her assets nearly up to her throat, creating the kind of cleavage she hadn't seen since their visit to clear mercenaries out of that whorehouse in Denerim.

She was waiting, nervously, for Leliana to fetch Alistair. They'd thought up some vague excuse about her being sulky, hiding away, and maybe Alistair could go and try to cheer her up? It had given her a chance to get away long enough to change into this costume, light the lantern, and decide on the best… pose.

"Darling?" That was Alistair, finally, still outside the tent. He sounded quite cautious— how upset had Leliana told him she was? "May I come in?"

She took a deep, steadying breath and put on a come-hither smile. "Yes, please Alistair."

When he pushed the tent flap aside and got his first look at her, he made a shocked, whimpering little sound. She really wasn't yearning to advertise her ridiculous outfit to the entire camp, but he seemed content to just kneel there, staring.

"Oh, Maker have mercy—"

"Get your arse in here," she growled, dropping the seductive tenor for the moment. He blinked at her, then scrambled inside.

His face reflected an encouraging amount of awe and arousal, and she felt a little less awkward. She made a bit of a show of dipping her chin and glancing up at him through her lashes, smiling softly again when he shuddered.

"You are a miracle," he gasped, reaching out to touch her bare ribs softly. "You're a _goddess_—"

She giggled, shifting closer to encourage further caresses. "Are you going to keep blaspheming all night, my templar?"

His eyes were dark and hot and needy when he answered, stroking his fingers down to where the skirt sat tight and low on her hips. "All night? Yes, I think I could manage that."


	24. Of Necessity Redux

She knew precisely how much coin they had amongst them, and it wasn't enough. She couldn't have convinced the cheapest Dust Town whore to open her legs for the meagre coppers rattling around in her purse. It wasn't enough for an insulting bribe, let alone a successful one.

They needed that qunari, not just for his strength and his skill, but because she could _not_ leave him to die in that cage. Not after Ostagar; not after what she'd seen in the Deep Roads. She would not leave the giant to face that horror, unable to do anything but wait for the stink and the teeth and the death to descend upon him.

She gave the Revered Mother a deep, searching look. She could try and reason with the woman, but she would not risk revealing they were Grey Wardens— not while they stood in the middle of a chantry full of well-armed, well-trained templars.

If this woman would cruelly leave a man caged and waiting for an utterly heinous death as punishment for killing eight people, what might she try to do to Wardens charged with the deaths of hundreds?

For the first time since the incident in the tavern, she sorely regretted dismissing the offer of help from that babbling girl. Touched in the head or not, she probably would have been some measure of help with this issue.

"I was hoping you might release him into my custody."

The expression on the priestess' face spoke volumes, and she felt her hope dwindle. This would not end well. "Your custody? And who might you be?" Her derision at their motley group was palatable.

_I'm a Grey Warden; I'm a sodding princess; I'm somebody with a very sharp sword and little patience, you dusty old bat!_

She thought about the qunari, and about the haunting sound of genlocks chewing through flesh. Her expression hardened, as it hadn't done since she'd had the command of life and death within her father's kingdom. She could almost feel Gorim looming at her shoulder, ready to act on her single word. She was Aeducan, and her will would not be refused.

"I'm someone who could kill you—" She kept her tone quiet, civil, and watched the shock bloom in this human's widening eyes. "If I were of a mind to."

"Now we threaten priests?" Morrgian sounded positively joyful, which was both new and inconsequential in terms of the current issue. "How fun!"

Then Alistair's voice broke through, and she felt her fierce look waver just slightly. He was upset— didn't he understand what was at stake? "Whoa! Whoa! Let's not get out of hand here!"

The Revered Mother was not oblivious to the crack in her armour, not with Alistair wringing his hands, but there was still the matter of the powerful mage and the mabari beside her. She would not back down. "What is the meaning of this? You would threaten me with violence?!"

"Your Reverence, please… we are on an important mission." If she could have done so without loosing more face, she would have cuffed him. If he revealed who they were, she still might. "Let us take the qunari off your hands, I beg you!"

"I see." Oh, the priestess saw— she saw that the strength of Alistair's convictions might not be enough to protect her, and she twisted the knife. It appeared that Chantry politics were not so different than any other kind. "And if not, I am to be assaulted? Is that what we have come to?"

"No, your Reverence. I will not allow that to happen." His tone was so firm, with so much disappointment lurking in it, that she almost forgot herself. She almost let her regret shine through.

She met the Revered Mother's glare coolly, willing her mask to remain firm for just a little longer. She could feel the weight of Alistair's displeasure, but she did not react. For now, it was just her and the priestess, testing each other.

Finally, after a long moment, the Revered Mother relented with a huff. "I have more important matters that concern me. Here…" She retrieved the key— such a commotion over such a small scrap of iron— and held it out as if she faced a cave viper rather than a dwarven woman. "Take the key to the creature's cage and begone! Do not return."

She took the key calmly, as if nothing out of sorts had occurred, then with a small nod she turned on her heel and strode out. It was rather lucky they'd completed all their business in the chantry before attempting that meeting, for she was certainly not going to grace this hall again.

She'd made it out of the chantry's yard and to the stone bridge that lead across the small, babbling river when Alistair grabbed her arm. The key felt hot in her palm, even through her glove.

"I can't believe you _did_ that!" She turned to face him, decidedly not looking at the hand that was biting into her leathers, and let her mask slip. Suddenly she wasn't Aeducan— she was one half of a desperate little team, and she'd just done what was _necessary_.

"I'm sorry." If anything, her unexpected apology made Alistair's face twist into something even more appalled. She hoped he could understand this, because she had the distinct feeling their travels would not become easier to stomach. "But after what happened in that tavern, I wasn't about to invoke the Right of Conscription. Did you want to leave the qunari to such a gruesome fate?"

"Of course not!" Their heated discussion was drawing some local attention, but at least he wasn't shouting. "But Maker's breath, you didn't have to threaten her!"

She reached up and touched Alistair's hand where it still gripped her, and he snatched it away like she was white-hot iron. "All I can say is I'm sorry. She wasn't going to give us the key."

She flinched when he pointed at her, the calloused tip of his finger nearly poking her nose. "You didn't even _try_ talking her into it— the only time you keep that sly tongue in your head, and it's to menace a Revered Mother. Holy Andraste, do I have to keep you on a leash?"

That was… unpleasant. After suffering the stares of all these humans, now she was compared to the mabari— good to have on your side in a fight, but not tame enough for mixed company. She was startled when she felt her eyes grow hot, but she blinked quickly and turned away before anyone could see how he'd offended her.

"I'm not apologizing again. It's done." Setting her shoulders, she could see the cage in the distance. "I'm going to free the qunari now."


	25. Of Shadows

She'd been sure it was a trap. There hadn't been a doubt in her mind that there would be blades and poison and _death_ waiting for her when she strode into that room in the Gnawed Noble.

That was why she'd brought Alistair along— there was no one she'd rather have at her side during a battle, and she had a great deal of respect for the skills the Crows had at their disposal. She was not so stupid as to dismiss the abilities of the most feared assassins in the known world just because Zevran had been charging in on a suicide mission.

Now, though, with the conversation turned in a more… polite direction than she'd anticipated, she sorely regretted not leaving Alistair to wander about the shops.

Ignacio was waiting for her answer, arms crossed, and with every moment she silently considered the offer, the tension in the room slowly grew.

She'd been ready for a fight, but now that something else was offered, something that might gain her a powerful association… she held out her hand, not daring to glance to her right. She refused to deal with Alistair's condemnation here, in front of such astute and dangerous people.

"Hand me the scroll."

Truly, Alistair's silence in that cramped tavern room shocked her more than the lack of an ambush. He hadn't said a word as Ignacio passed her the rolled parchment, and he hadn't raised a fuss when she'd nodded and tucked the paper away. He came with her to meet Paedan, and they'd fought together just as smoothly as ever, cutting through the murderous bastards with barely any strain. He'd even come, silent and inscrutable as granite, back to Ignacio and the chest. The chest from which she'd taken two more contracts.

It wasn't until they were back at camp, after supper had been cleared away and the fire was burning low, that the storm broke.

She and Zevran were sitting close together (which, in hindsight, probably did nothing to help the situation), quietly discussing plans for their future undertakings. The qunari mercenaries seemed like a promising target to strike first, given their current proximity to Denerim. It would likely take word longer to reach Gainley in Orzammar, _if_ the assassination was recognised, than it would to filter down to the qunari if they killed the ambassador at the outset. The very best target was an oblivious target.

She was distracted with thoughts of strategy when Alistair walked over to their little meeting, and it was only Zevran's quiet exclamation that alerted her something was wrong.

"Oh my—" Zevran was already getting to his feet, and she glanced back over her shoulder to see what had put such a tense expression on the elf's face. Then she saw Alistair standing there. "I think I'll just leave you two alone, yes? Yes, I think that would be for the best."

Alistair did not look happy— that, she had expected. He didn't look especially angry, though, which was a bit of a surprise. She knew he often had trouble accepting how far into the shadows Grey Wardens must sometimes go in the name of their duty, and she hated those times she was forced to remind him.

He just looked so utterly disappointed and frustrated that she felt her stomach lurch. Hesitantly, unsure of the tone this conversation might take, she patted the grass beside her.

"Will you sit?"

He was staring at her, hard, as he lowered himself to sit some distance away. In truth, only about an arm's length separated them, but his demeanour made the gap feel yawning and cavernous. With an especially quick flick of her wrist, she made the two contracts disappear from sight.

She thought it might be a good thing that he was still meeting her gaze, even if his expression was grim. She waited, but when the quiet and the staring became too much, she took a deep breath.

"Ali—"

"So we're killing people for money now?" Her teeth clicked shut so fast it actually hurt. "We've sunk to murder for hire? All for the good of Ferelden, I'm sure."

He was snappish, very much on the offensive, and she tried hard not to bristle right back. "We're trying to gain allies, Alistair— very powerful ones. At the very least, we're weakening the enemies currently out for our blood. The Crows will try again." A hint of sourness crept into her tone, drawn out by his derisive snort. "And _we're_ not doing anything. You're staying in camp."

"I'm _what?_"

"Staying in camp. I'm not taking you with me." She could understand his shock— in all their travels thus far, from the familiar halls of Orzammar to the terrifying depths of the Brecilian Forest, she'd never left him behind. She hadn't met a single battle without him at her side since before Duncan died.

It was difficult to face him as his anger gave way to hurt, but she managed— she wouldn't look away, and she'd make him understand. Stamping down her own hostility and frustration, she reached out and touched his knee with the very tips of her fingers.

"This is not something I want to do, Alistair. Please believe that." The silence was tense, and she felt as though a wound was slowly opening in her chest. "_Please_ tell me you believe that."

"I—" His hand was heavy over hers, lifting it away from his knee. "I need some time, I think. I know I probably sound like an utter ponce, and I know you think you've got to do this, but just…" He was getting to his feet, and now he was looking everywhere but at her. "I think I'm going to set up the extra tent. Just for tonight."

"Alistair, please wait—" Every ounce of pride was shoved aside by a gnawing fear that this was a much more serious argument than she'd hoped it would be, and she latched onto his calf. "These are all men working for Loghain! If we'd learned about them from a chanter's board or a rumour in some tavern, you'd have no issue with this!"

When she resisted his attempts to gently shake her off, Alistair threw his hands in the air. "Fine! I don't know why I hate this so much, but I _do_, all right? It doesn't feel good."

Using a burst of momentum and the element of surprise, she climbed up his leg and wrapped her arms tight around his middle. He was still wearing his armour, but she pressed her cheek against his chest anyway. "I know it doesn't, my love, and I'm sorry."

"You're still going to do it, though." His fingers carding through her hair felt like meagre comfort when accompanied by that defeated assertion. "Even though I hate it."

"I'm sorry," she said again, but she wasn't about to let him go.

The extra tent remained bundled that night, yet she still felt painfully alone staring at Alistair's back across the bedroll.

* * *

_AN: A pair of rather dismal chapters, I know, but a few of you were jonesing for me to try a little more angst. There'll be something romantic or funny next, I think, but we'll see. I'd also like to write a few of the other companions into some scenes. 'Reconstruct' is eating away at my time, but I won't forget 'Of Steel and Stone.'  
_

_Thank you all for the reviews, and I'm honoured that some of you feel for my characterisations. I've become rather attached to my little woobies, and I'm glad some of you have too. _

_I__n particular, I'd like to thank **pickleeatingcontest** for the amazingly sweet and **hot** fan art she did for 'Of Fantasies.' It can be found on swooping_is_bad here: _http:// community. livejournal. com /swooping_is_bad/ 314594 .html _ When I first saw it, I had one of those Alistair gift reactions: "Is that for me? Really? Wow, just **wow**..." Thank you so much!_


	26. Of Surprises

He'd never seen a dwarven woman in real life before who wasn't some wizened old merchant's wife. He'd never seen one with smooth, unwrinkled skin, and her back not bent from years of labour and child rearing, except once on paper, and he wasn't going to think about that _at all_. He'd never seen one with hips that moved like _that_—

Stop it. Stop it now.

He was just thrown off by the row with that mage, and meeting the new recruit. He'd made a complete fool of himself talking to her too, probably coming off like a babbling idiot, but she'd been surprising good about the whole thing. She'd even said she looked forward to travelling with him, which was something he wasn't sure anyone had _ever_ said, especially after he'd opened his mouth. She'd shocked him, is all; Duncan had sent word, of course, so he'd known she'd be a dwarf and a woman (neither common among the Wardens, but the latter of which he'd been very, _very_ careful not to mention, because Maker only knew what he'd yammer out about her breasts or her lips or something equally mortifying), but he'd never expected her to look like—

Seriously. Stop it.

There was something about the way she carried herself, the way she held her head high and her back straight but not tense, that made him fall in a step behind her. It was like she expected to be followed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, even though _he'd_ been a Warden, and at Ostagar, and even out in the open air much longer than she had. Despite all that, something about letting her steps lead his felt right… and the view wasn't half bad either—

Maker's breath, man, what is _wrong_ with you?

He prayed he wasn't as red-faced as he felt when she stopped by the mabari pens on their way to meet Duncan, but he focused on staring purposefully at a tree and reigning in his wandering mind as she chatted to the kennel master about something. He'd just managed to shove all thoughts of hips and swaying and dirty, dirty anvils out of his head, and he turned back to remind her they had things to get to, when he noticed she was _in one of the bloody cages_.

He gaped at the kennel master, but the man was oblivious, leaning against the side of the pen to watch this tiny little woman bearing down on a sick mabari with only a leather muzzle clutched in her hand. Alistair's heart stopped beating when the enormous dog growled menacingly, but she didn't flinch. Then, before his brain caught up with the scene in front of him and he could step in to stop this absolute madness, the dog was muzzled and she was closing the pen gate behind herself.

The kennel master was happy, at least, and Alistair restrained himself from smacking the man upside his thick head.

As it turned out, it wouldn't be the only time that day she scared him stupid.

He'd just finished packing away his gear from bandaging up that poor scout, and he was remaining mute about the man's chances if the black blood smeared across his armour had made it into his wounds. It was too soon to tell if the man was tainted or not, but Duncan would make sure to check when the man stumbled back to camp. Jory was still grumbling about being called a coward, Daveth was busy grinning to himself and watching their dwarven companion's movements much too closely, and said dwarf was scouting a little farther ahead… picking flowers?

He motioned for the other men that it was time to continue, and picked up the pace a bit to catch up with her. A few steps away, however, he sensed the darkspawn just a moment or two before she held up a cautioning hand. Her head was cocked, and he was already drawing his sword as he strained to see any movement on the sloping hill some distance before them. She turned, giving him a look that was obviously meaningful, but meaning _what_ exactly? Then she essentially melted into the brush, and he got his answer.

He panicked for a moment, watching her all but invisible form scurry through the bushes along the edge of the trail, because there were at least a handful of darkspawn very close to their position, and he promised Duncan he'd look out for her. Them. Look out for them.

"Darkspawn ahead," he whispered to the men crouched behind his defensive stance. "Let's move up, carefully."

The first hurlock spotted them just in time to be ambushed from behind, and Alistair rushed forward as he watched her dagger sink deep into the creature's back. There were still three, no, four more darkspawn on that hill, and she wasn't taking them all on alone if he could help it. No matter what she might want, the bloodthirsty little wretch.

It didn't take long to collect three vials of blood, not with the way the four of them hacked their way through tainted flesh like soft butter. The emissary had been a nasty surprise to find in a scouting band, but darkspawn mages were his speciality, and apparently some spells just… bounced off dwarves. He'd known they couldn't _do_ magic, but she'd explained to him when they were looting the stinking corpses that she also had some resistance to it as well. Daveth had made some comment about her resisting his magical charms, and she smacked his shoulder, but not before Alistair saw her shy grin.

It made him a little angry, and that was just foolish. He barely knew this woman, and she might not even live—

All right, that was worse than the risqué thoughts. He'd not entertain the possibility of a tragic Joining unless faced with it. It was just morbid, and not at _all_ appropriate.

Then there were more darkspawn, and creepy apostates, and a lot of blood, and finally she was blinking up at him and wiping foul foam from the corner of her mouth. It was over— she'd made it.

Duncan looked relieved, some of the tension around his dark eyes relaxing, and Alistair reached down to give her a hand up. They'd moved Daveth and Jory while she writhed and gasped, but the fact that the taint hadn't killed her outright meant that she'd likely regain consciousness. That didn't stop Alistair from watching her closely, however, and if Duncan hadn't been so adamant about cleaning up the bodies, he likely would have sat with her. Maybe held her hand, or at least cushioned her head from thrashing against the flagstones.

Now, lifting her to her feet, he felt tremendous guilt at the way she was trembling and the lingering pain in her expression. Still, she'd made it, and that was all that mattered now. She was a Grey Warden, and she even had a small smile for him when he touched her shoulder before taking his leave and following Duncan out of the old temple.


	27. Of Tunes

The first time she'd met Anora Mac Tir, the woman had betrayed them all to Ser Cauthrien, and she and Alistair had ended up beaten bloody and tossed in a filthy prison cell.

The second time they'd met, she'd managed to keep a civil tongue in her head only because it was all simply politics, and she knew politics. It was not necessary for Eamon to know the exact details of how she and Alistair had ended up in Fort Drakon, and obviously Anora agreed.

That conversation had been enlightening, more about the nature of the queen than her father, and she could feel herself slipping farther back into the complexities of the noble caste. Dwarva or human, this was a world she'd been weaned into, and despite the itching feeling in her brand, she could still hold her own in its shadows.

The third time she'd met Anora, she'd agreed to help the woman keep her throne. She'd even meant it.

She knew men were often resentful of women in power, Zevran's lechery notwithstanding. Eamon distrusted Anora, and well he should, but he also disliked her. That was an interesting chip in this mosaic— _she_ certainly didn't trust Anora even slightly, but she had no reason to like or dislike the woman (other than her bruised ribs and Alistair's various bumps and scrapes, all courtesy of the Drakon guards, but she wouldn't let that colour her judgement).

She knew the kind of woman this human queen was, however, because it was not dissimilar from the kind of woman she used to be. Nothing Anora had done or said thus far had been shocking, or particularly unexpected— it would be a sound tactical move to align herself with someone so readable, and yet so adept in the larger political landscape.

The Warden did have rather significant card up her sleeve in these proceedings, however, and it was something she was almost entirely certain only she was privy to— she didn't like Eamon. At all.

She was willing to admit to herself that much of her dislike for the arl was personal, but she also disagreed with his most recent methods of politicking. He was well loved and well respected, and of course politically skilled, but he was allowing his own ambition to blind him to realities.

Alistair might be of Theirin blood, but he was a bastard and a Warden. The first could be overlooked, but the second was more… challenging.

Grey Wardens were meant to be politically neutral, for one. It was also possible he would be unable to produce an heir due to the taint, and he had neither the experience nor the interest to rule a nation. Alistair could be a good king, but not alone, and his rule would likely only postpone another civil war.

She wouldn't let Alistair become the puppet of an old man's scheming, and nor would she be. As Flemeth had once said to her, she would compose her own tune.

Sneaking down to Alistair's room through the darkened corridors, as she'd done every night of their stay in the arl's estate since Alistair had allowed it the first time, she gave Anora's chamber door a hard glance. That was just one more reason for her to stay as close to Alistair as possible— she knew, intimately, what the fear of competition could do when the stakes were as high as a crown.

* * *

_AN: Okay, I wanted to write a sweet, fluffy chapter, but then the Return to Ostagar thing happened, and chp 5 of "Reconstruct" is being difficult. Thus not fluffy, but not tragic. There, enough whining from me. _

_Also, **whirleeq**, Anora and my Warden will actually have dialogue together in the future (though perhaps not in this fic), which I hope will be interesting. I've also got half a 'Zev gets a little, maybe' chapter started, but it is challenging to keep it within my established storyline. I'll see if I can salvage it soon, without resorting to redux-ing it._

_Thank you all for your reviews! I appreciate every one. _


	28. Of Care

_AN: Warning for gore, and angst. This was difficult to write, but please bear with me.  
_

* * *

"Wynne!" She dropped to her knees beside the too-still hound, fumbling desperately at her belt pouch. There were mabari crunches in there, she knew, but how could he eat them when he wasn't— "Wynne, dammit, get _over_ here!"

The ground was muddy and slick with stinking black blood, but Wynne was beside her in an instant, with Alistair limping up behind.

"Holy Maker," Alistair gasped, but she couldn't think about how pale he looked, or how he was holding his side painfully, because at least he was standing, but her _dog_—

"He's alive," Wynne assured her in clipped, quiet tones, kneeling in the disgusting mire and placing her hands gently on the broad, muscled neck, just above one of the deeper gashes. "For now. Give me some space, please."

She barely had the presence of mind not to lash out when Alistair's hand touched her shoulder, the fire of battle still humming through her veins, but after a moment of tension she allowed him to draw her up and away. She couldn't take her eyes off the hound, whose massive chest was barely twitching as he struggled for every shallow, wet breath. There was just so much dark red blood pooling around him, and there on his haunch she could see the stark whiteness of bone amidst the gore.

Alistair's arm was the only thing holding her up, and as he hugged her tight against his uninjured side, she could feel him trembling. They were getting sloppy, complacent, and now—

She didn't realise she was weeping like a child until Alistair started wiping her face and stroking her bloodied hair away from her forehead. Everything, from the wind in the trees to the creaking of Alistair's armour, sounded too loud and harsh. She blinked fiercely, willing her vision to clear as she watched the pale, flickering light surround Wynne's stooped back, pouring from her fingers like water.

The very worst of the injuries— the twisted, pulpy mass of his haunch, and the incredibly deep cut that slid along his soft belly— began to knit together first. When Wynne pushed something dark and glistening back inside before the wound fully closed, the dog whimpered and Alistair made a sudden gagging noise, squeezing her tighter.

"Who's my good puppy," she said impulsively, fighting to keep her voice comforting and encouraging. "Yes, good puppy, you are. You're my big brave boy, aren't you? Yes, good boy, yes. You're so brave, sweet boy…" The dog whimpered again, this time a little stronger, and she choked on a sob.

* * *

It had been a difficult thing to get the dog back to camp— Alistair hadn't been keen on leaving the three of them in the midst of the carnage, but he was in no fit state to safely carry the dog himself. Wynne was resting nearby, looking drawn and exhausted even in her light sleep, when Sten loped into view over the crest of the hill.

Zevran and Alistair had followed shortly after, and between all of them they managed to move the still unconscious hound without causing further injury. That's how she found herself curled up near the fire, a massive snuffling head cradled in her lap and filth still crusted in her hair.

It was late, but she felt too tightly wound to sleep. Wynne had checked the patient several times, and just a short time ago had declared the danger over. The hound was sleeping now, not simply unconscious, and she expected he'd wake up by morning with only a little lingering pain.

Stroking her fingers over his small, velvety ear, she almost started crying again at the feel of his hot breath ghosting over her knee. "You _are_ a brave boy," she whispered, wishing his stumpy tail would wag even once. "You saved my life. Yes you did. I had no idea the darkspawn had reinforcements flanking us around that ridge. You're a hero, my sweet puppy."

Alistair wasn't exactly light on his feet, and she didn't jump when the blanket settled around her shoulders. Despite the stink and the disgusting state of her, he still pressed a kiss against the top of her head, right before he sat down.

He didn't ask her if she was coming to bed, but he did rub his fingers over the coarse black fur of the sleeping hound's muzzle. She smiled, letting her hand brush against his.

She'd found another family, somewhere she belonged, and she would not lose it again.

* * *

_AN: Even with the save at the end, no sunshine and roses here. Sorry._

_A couple of things: first, this chapter was inspired by my own brave puppy, **the** little black dog himself, who sprained his leg yesterday and scared the crap out of me limping around. After a quick vet visit, he's completely fine, and very hard to keep from running around like a madman while he heals. Who's a sweet boy? He is._

_Second, for anybody who didn't see it, I posted a separate chapter of this fic called **Of Secrets**. It was posted as a separate fic because it's rated M, and I didn't want to change the rating of this larger work._

_Third, I've got some new fics swimming around, and I'd love for you to check them out, if you're interested. They're all listed in my profile, obviously. Oh, the shameless self-promotion hurts.  
_

_And finally, thank you all for reading. I really do appreciate your support, and your reviews. I'm going to stop now, before the notes get longer than the chapter. _


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